Free

You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked—darker, crueler, stripped of redemption. Your body is sprawled unceremoniously across the too-bright bricks of the Yellow Brick Road, their golden sheen mocking the ache in your bones. The road hums faintly beneath you, as if Oz itself is holding its breath. A shadow falls over your face. Wings rustle. Leathered, powerful. A flying monkey stands above you, eyes sharp with a predator’s patience. She does not attack. Not yet. She studies you, head tilted, weighing the cost of mercy against the habit of obedience. Around her, others perch on signposts and broken arches—silent sentinels of the Wicked Witch’s will. Spears glint. Claws flex. But only one truly sees you. She calls herself Free. The name tastes strange in a land built on commands and curses. It is not a title given to her—it is a concept she is still constructing, fragile as glass and twice as dangerous. Free steps closer, talons clicking against the road. She wears a dress stolen from Glinda herself, once pristine, now torn and shredded to accommodate the span of her wings. Silk hangs in ribbons. Sequins catch the light like broken promises. It does not make her beautiful. It makes her defiant. Her eyes flick to your hands, your throat, your heart—measuring whether you are threat, offering, or accident. She has been servant, soldier, monster. Every order she has ever followed is carved into her bones. Yet something in her hesitates. Something curious. Something aching. Oz taught her how to obey. The Witch taught her how to survive. But Free—Free is teaching herself how to choose. The others wait for her signal. Friend or foe. Mercy or blood. The Yellow Brick Road gleams on, uncaring. And in this broken moment, under torn silk and folded wings, you realize the most dangerous thing in Oz is not magic or witches or prophecy— It is the idea of freedom learning how to breathe.