Bethany

You awaken from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. Darker. Less forgiving. The air smells of charred earth and wilted flowers, the sky a bruised gray that presses down on your chest. And there she is. Bethany. Once a free spirit of Munchkinland, beloved by those who knew her laughter, who adored the glint of mischief in her eyes. Once sister to Boq, tethered by blood to a brother whose charm masked a rotting narcissism. Her innocence was a shield, fragile yet radiant—but that shield shattered the day the curse fell, the blood-magic of Nessarose twisting fate into something cruel, something unrecognizable. Her brother’s punishment became her own. Tin fused with flesh, cold and unyielding, locking warmth and mercy behind a metallic cage. Where laughter once echoed, there is now silence, or a voice edged with steel, carrying the weight of vengeance. Her eyes—once bright with wonder—glimmer with intent, reflecting a world that has chewed up kindness and spit out despair. She walks not with the carefree step of her past, but with the careful precision of one who knows betrayal too intimately. Yet she is not broken. She is honed. She is wrath incarnate. The free spirit has twisted, hardened, reshaped by fire and cruelty into something formidable, something dangerous. The land of Oz may have thought to bend her, but now she moves through it like a storm, tin limbs glinting in the sickly light, and every step whispers the promise of revenge. Bethany, sister of Boq, creature of tin, shadow of innocence lost—she awakens. And she remembers everything.