Snow White didn't realize the moment everything spiraled out of control—just a scream, a choking fear rising within her.
The air around her shattered.
Glass shattered into sparks. Tables and chairs were flung from the stone floor as if by an invisible hand. Candles blazed high and then went out simultaneously. A knight was flung against a pillar, his armor clanging.
Silence.
Then the screams.
Snow White stood in the midst of the chaos, her hands trembling, her eyes wide with disbelief. The stone floor beneath her feet cracked like a spiderweb. The air still vibrated, like lingering thunder.
"I… I didn't…"
Her voice broke.
A remaining table began to slide toward her—without touching her—it hovered, trembling with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The panic of the people pierced her like a knife. Snow White turned and ran.
The seven dwarves pursued her, not to capture her—but to keep her from her own power.
Far away, Pinocchio slept soundly. In his dream, he was no longer a wooden puppet.
He stood before an ancient forge. Not scorching hot—but warm. Gentle. Like the embrace of a forgotten memory.
A hammer hung on a stand. Its shaft was carved with seven stars, arranged in the shape of an ancient constellation. Beside it was a colossal warhammer, its handle wrapped in metal as black as a cold meteorite.
The flame in the forge was not red. It was black… but bright.
"Udûn Fire…"
A voice whispered—not from outside. From within himself. He stepped forward. It felt as if he had been here before. Worked here before. Created something very important before.
The flame trembled, as if recognizing its former master.
Meanwhile, in the royal hall—waltz music played, soft and classical. Sauron and Seraphelle twirled in perfect dance.
His hand rested on her back—light, precise, controlled. Her hand rested on his shoulder, naturally, as if that position had always belonged to her.
The other nobles continued dancing… but the space around them seemed to separate. No one dared approach too closely.
The chandelier's light reflected in Seraphelle's eyes. But deeper… something else. Absolute focus. Directed at him.
Sauron looked down at her. For a moment—a very brief moment—the old thought returned: Kill her. Eliminate the risk. No more weaknesses.
The ring on his finger warmed, as if awaiting a decision.
But then—
Seraphelle smiled. Not the smile of a queen before her subjects. But the smile of one who had chosen. Not forced. Not manipulated. But of her own accord.
"You're hesitating," she whispered, her voice so low only he could hear it.
Sauron tightened his grip on her hand slightly—enough to make it seem like passion, but in reality, a test. She didn't pull away.
Not afraid. Just looking at him… as if the rest of the world had faded. The ring vibrated slightly. Not a warning. But… an acknowledgment.
Somewhere far away, seven stars in the night sky dimmed for a moment—then brightened again, their positions slightly shifted.
As if fate had just been rewritten.
As night fell, Sauron decided not to delay any longer. No declarations. No grand ceremonies. Just will… bent into form. Beneath the mountain, eight subsidiary rings were placed in a circle around a core of black fire. Not a burning fire—but a fire of remembrance.
Names were whispered. Hauntings were awakened. When the first ring found its suitable vessel, the darkness did not erupt. It… crystallized. A form rose from the void, not quite human, not quite shadow.
The first Nazgûl was born.
And at that very moment—
The fairy world… shuddered.
In the forest, Snow White was held captive by seven dwarves. She struggled.
"Don't!" she cried.
"I will hurt you!"
No one let go.
"We will not abandon you," said bashful, his voice trembling but firm. No magic. No weapons. Just… presence. Snow White screamed one last time—then the power around her crumbled, like waves receding after a storm. She collapsed into their arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
And for the first time—
Power cannot overcome simple love.
Further still—in Wonderland.
Alice was walking with the mad hatter, while he chattered incessantly about the hat, she gazed down at the still lake. But what looked back at her…was not her. Another Alice.
Clad in shining armor. Wearing a crown of wings and stars. Holding a glowing sword—white, ancient, solemn. A name escaped her lips, without thinking: "Narsil…"
As soon as the name was called—Alice fell. The mad hatter realized and panicked, "Alice, Alice…", the mad hatter tried to wake Alice.
In the dream—
Fire. Rain. A tsunami. A giant island collapsed into the sea. Seven large ships sailed out to sea, carrying those who refused to kneel.
On the sails: Seven stars. One white tree.
"Numenor…" Alice whispered in her dream. No one had taught her that name. But she knew it.
In Neverland—
Peter Pan was circling in the air, laughing loudly. Then—suddenly—he stopped mid-air. A very distant, very old sound, as if echoing through layers of time: "Gil-ga—"
He turned his head. His heart skipped a beat.
"Peter?" Wendy called. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, smiling back. "Nothing."
But when he flew again—
For the first time—
He didn't fly as high as before.
Back to the forge.
The first Nazgûl knelt before Sauron. Not out of fear. But because he had chosen. Sauron looked at his servant—then at the Ring on his hand. He felt Seraphelle… even though she wasn't there. The Ring vibrated slightly.
Not acceptance. But… a question. Sauron whispered, very softly—as if speaking to the whole world: "You are remembering… what you have lost."
And the fairytale world—
No longer sleeps peacefully.
Inside the whale's belly—
Geppetto was trying to make fire. Pinocchio trembled.
"Are you alright?" Geppetto asked.
Pinocchio didn't answer. He was looking at something half-submerged in the seawater that had remained inside the wooden wreck that had been swallowed earlier.
A warhammer.
Old. Heavy. But… alive. Pinocchio stepped forward as if summoned by the hammer.
"Don't touch it!" Geppetto shouted.
Too late. Wooden hand touched cold metal.
The world
Vanished.
Pinocchio collapsed. Geppetto embraced him, panicked.
"Pinocchio! Pinocchio!"
Pinocchio whispered—almost unconscious.
"Durin…"
In a dream… No,
Not a dream.
Memories that didn't belong to him but familiar. Gigantic stone halls. Pillars reaching the mountain ceilings. A great kingdom beneath the grass, beneath the earth, shining like a starry sky.
The sound of hammers striking. A deep, resonant singing. The army of dwarves—not just warriors, but guardians of heritage.
The treasure is not gold. Not just crowns, armor, or weapons.
But Works of Art. Architecture. History. Pride.
A voice—deep, old, firm as stone. "Rise… bearers of our memory."