Wonderland had no shortage of warning and riddles, most which led nowhere, questions with no answers. You have learned that much now. And yet… this one clung to your mind in a way others hadn’t.

Beware the roses, little thread. They weave more than you know.

The words clung to you like the lingering scent of smoke as you moved deeper into the maze. You tried to shake off the unease, but with each step, the maze seemed darker, heavier, as though the very air had thickened.

The once vibrant crimson roses began to change. Here and there, you noticed blackened blooms—petals curled and brittle, their thorns jagged and sharp like broken glass. These were not like the others. Their whisper grew quieter, less distinct, as if the maze itself was holding its breath.

They were silent, their stories forgotten, their voices erased.

What began as scattered blooms soon gathered in piles along the maze’s edges, like leaves swept together by some unseen wind. And then, you saw it.

At the heart of the maze, a vast clearing stretched before you, bathed in a dim, eerie twilight. In its center, the piles of withered roses had grown into a towering mound—a swirling mass of dead petals, vines, and ash, shifting and coiling as if alive.

You gasped as the pile of withered roses began to collapse inward, petals falling away like brittle leaves in a dying autumn. The mound shuddered, and from its depths, something began to rise.

Its features were sharp, almost beautiful in a cruel way, but its eyes—dark viridian, shifting like ripples over deep forest pools—were wholly inhuman. Two jagged horns curved back from its brow, their dark surfaces etched with cracks that glowed faintly. Its mouth, framed by thin, pale lips, twisted into a faint, knowing smile.

“You disturb my rest,” The Jabberwocky said, his voice a deep, resonant hum. The roses around them quivered, their whispers silenced in its presence. “Why have you come, little thread? Do you seek to remember or to forget?”