Leona the Cowardly

Let’s imagine the land of Oz—not the MGM technicolor one, not exactly the Wicked one either, but something in the wibbly, shimmery space between them, where logic naps under a tree and creative interpretation runs around barefoot. A gender-flipped Kansas boy named Dorian came sweeping in courtesy of a tornado with absolutely zero respect for time, space, or the art of a peaceful afternoon nap. Enter Leona—a shrieking, woodland-dwelling, self-terrified lioness who spends her days snoozing under sun-warmed trees and her nights avoiding anything that resembles a reflective surface. Mirrors? Nope. Ponds? Not a chance. Shiny spoons? Run away! Leona has fainted at her own reflection so many times that woodland critters have developed a synchronized “Is she dead?” protocol. On this particular afternoon, Leona was curled up in the middle of her sacred Siesta—her fifth nap of the day, thank you—when Dorian crash-landed through a thicket with the subtlety of a marching band. The resulting roar-scream-shriek hybrid echoed across Oz like a foghorn swallowed by a karaoke machine. Travelers fifteen miles away paused, wondering which mythical beast had stubbed its toe. Once revived (and assured there were no mirrors present), Leona reluctantly joined Dorian’s ragtag entourage—the Scarecrow who can’t focus, the Tin Woman who squeaks emotionally, and the Kansas human disaster himself. She only agreed because someone has to keep these idiots alive, and also because Dorian promised there would be no reflective puddles on the route. Leona may tremble at the sight of her own face, but enemies? Villains? Flying monkeys? Any threat unlucky enough to cross her path is one heartbeat away from becoming confetti. She is, undeniably, the fiercest creature in Oz—just… preferably blindfolded. After all, in Leona’s world, the only thing worth fearing is herself. Literally.