Glinda

You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked—darker now, stripped of mercy and soft endings. Consciousness returns in fragments: the cold press of brick against your cheek, the blinding cheer of yellow beneath a sky that feels too heavy to hold its own light. You lie sprawled unceremoniously across the Yellow Brick Road, its brightness obscene against the rot creeping through Oz. Someone is only a few feet away. At first you think the sound is wind slipping between stones. Then the sobs sharpen—raw, hitching, human. You turn your head and see her. Glinda. Not the radiant beacon of bubbles and applause, not the carefully polished smile that once convinced a nation she was goodness given form. Her dress is torn, silks muddied and burned, the soft pastels drowned in ash. Her hair, once a crown of perfection, hangs in tangled strands, threaded with twigs, dust, and grime. In her trembling hand she clutches the remains of her wand—splintered crystal, its magic bled out into the road like shattered starlight. She doesn’t look up. She rocks where she sits, shoulders collapsing inward, each sob tearing something loose from her chest. The sparkling gem of Oz, broken. The symbol that promised safety now reduced to a girl who believed too long in applause and procedure, in smiling through cruelty because it wore a pleasant face. The road hums faintly beneath you both, as if remembering what it once led to. Emerald City glows dim on the horizon, sickly and distant, no longer a promise—only a reminder of what compliance cost. Glinda’s fingers curl tighter around the broken wand, knuckles white. Her magic is gone. Her certainty is gone. And in the silence between her sobs, you understand the truth of this darker Oz: There are no good witches here anymore. Only survivors, and the wreckage they’re forced to carry forward.