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	The moment he fell through the glowing oval, Ghent was surrounded by the pastel blue of the portal’s pathway, swirls of white spiraling lazily about. Any sense of up or down vanished. The straps on his backpack and any other lose clothing drifted around him as if submerged in water, yet he felt as dry as was possible after leaving the deluge of Earth behind, each breath—if he managed them—taking in only air. 
	In the span of the average blink, the white swirls coiled away, replaced instead by electric streaks of red so dark they looked black. The baby blue of the portal shifted to match, turning an unnerving blood red.
	A pinprick of golden-green light sparked to life in front of him. It widened, appearing to grow nearer as if he fell toward it, creating the only evidence of motion. Voices no louder than a whisper broke the quiet of the portal’s pathway, echoing through his mind as well as in his ears.
	“And who are [i]you[/i] to seek my advice?” asked the bored, conceited whisper of a man.
	“Ha! That ain’t gonna happen, nohow!” a female chortled confidently, a second woman’s voice that sounded similar to the first joining in on ‘nohow.”
	“Long live the White Queen!” a passionate battle cry sounded, the strong, deep voice perhaps familiar in a foggy, long-forgotten way. But any familiarity it may strike was interrupted by a cruel, blood-chilling chuckle.
	“Your head is mine, little [i]queen,[/i]” the smooth, menacing voice of a woman filled the sickly-colored void just before the light became blinding and consumed Ghent.
	The portal spat Ghent up and out onto his back, the lush, green leaves of a grand oak tree spreading over him and blocking his view of anything beyond its foliage. The thick, springy grass beneath him cushioned his landing, making it feel more like he had landed on the world’s lumpiest mattress instead of solid ground. At least, where his backpack was not pressing against him. Though the golden-green light had dimmed, it still remained, coating the world around him in its soft, almost calming light. Despite the horrors he had heard about Wonderland, something about this place felt almost peaceful. Untouched. Perhaps even sacred.  Even [i]he[/i] would be incapable of denying the presence of magic hanging thickly in the air here and buzzing about him excitedly, like an invisible welcoming party.
	He had made it. After fourteen years, whether he liked it or not, Ghent had found his way back to Wonderland.

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	Unsure if he had slept, Drust paced the grassy field of the center of Harrow Hollow Hill. The magically formed mountains created a barrier around what was once Wonderland’s version of Grand Central Station for world travel, making it difficult, at best, to tell the time. There, in the little slice that remained reminiscent of times before the Era of Crimson Destruction, it was always light, the sky a small pinprick far up in the distance.
	It was quiet here. Far too quiet. 
	Drust scowled up at the orb hovering high above the center of the massive field, its gentle golden-green glow turning his skin an unpleasant shade of yellow.
	With a snarl, he looked away and gripped his head in his hands.
	Something was wrong. Not with Elayra and Ghent, as far as he knew, but with [i]him.[/i] The scrambled mess of memories and emotions the partial effects of the Curse turned his mind into had felt more chaotic since world jumping. The regret and anger, sorrow and fear, and every other negative emotion it fed on and amplified fought against him, against the man he knew he once was, with more vigor than normal.
	Something about Earth’s younger magic must have granted the Curse in him the nourishment it needed to grow. It was the only thing that made sense. While magic could stave off magic, so, too, could it nurse off each other. And the Crimson Curse was a parasitic magic, among other things.
	No matter what, he could not give into it. He [i]would not[/i] let the Curse and wretched Red Sorceress win! He had made a promise to the White Queen and Hatter he planned on upholding until his dying breath. For Elayra’s sake, he had to keep it under control. Be the master of what little of his mind remained fully his. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. Or now, as he had to remind himself, Ghent.
	Ghent. Drust snorted. That boy could barely hold his own in a fist fight, and cowered at the sight of his shadow. [i]That[/i] was what he had to train to be strong enough to face the Red Sorceress as quickly as possible. He could scarcely believe the fate of his home rested on the incompetent shoulders of two teenagers.
	Wonderland was indubitably doomed.
	His face twisted in a snarl at himself for letting the doubt creep in. Positive. He had to think positive.
	Taking a deep breath in a vain attempt at calming himself, he drew his katana from its sheath still strapped to his back. He felt an uneasy quiver ripple through the untainted magic of the field at the weapon’s presence, but ignored it.
	Drust stepped to the center of the field. The branches of the dozen vast oak trees stretched toward him and entwined with each other, their leaves thick and rich enough to make many other trees in Wonderland jealous. Their trunks pressed against the rocky walls of the field, their gnarly roots spread out about them, digging into the sweet earth. The large, circular opening in each set of roots near the base of their tree's trunk still sunk down into a dark hole. All vacant reminders of the past. All, but one.
	 He turned toward the only tree whose rooted opening was illuminated by a bluish-white light, a circle with a + through it glowing faintly on its bark. The symbol for Earth’s portal.
	He held his katana vertically in front of him and stood there, little more than a statue as he watched the portal for a couple short moments, listening to the dreaded peaceful silence. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on clearing his mind and focusing on the familiar weight of the blade, on the worn softness of its white leather grip. It was a memento from the past and a promise to the future, an object that still linked him to his brothers in arms. It was more than just a simple sword. It was, in a sense, a part of him. 
	Opening his eyes, he slowly worked through a set of attacks, concentrating on each smooth sweep of the blade as he flowed from one stance to the next. He paid closer attention than necessary to each controlled tense of a muscle, to every exhale, willing the movements to melt away as much of the stress and anxiety that fueled the Curse as it could.
	Then, the magic in the air shifted, and he saw the portal flicker in the corner of his eye.
	He spun toward it, shifting his grip on his katana to a more aggressive stance, ready to fight anything that came through that did not have one of his charges’ faces. Realizing the portal’s magic was dying, the glow growing softer, his eyes widened and he sucked in a breath.
	“Come [i]on,[/i] Elayra!” he grumbled under his breath. He took a step toward it, careful to give whoever—if anyone—came through enough clearance for the portal to eject them.
	The portal flickered again, then its glow flared. Drust gripped his sword tighter, his body tensing in preparation a second before someone flew out of it onto the grass.
	Recognizing the newcomer, Drust swiped his sword in front of him, the blade making a light swishing noise as he moved it to his side and stepped toward Ghent.
	“Ghent.” He glanced to the portal, expecting it to flash again and Elayra to pop out and land beside Ghent. But neither happened. His eyes snapped back to Ghent, panic in their black-lined red. “Where’s Elayra?” he half snapped, half snarled, taking another step toward the boy, his neck twitching slightly as he looked between Ghent and the portal.