Cardina

You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. Darker. Meaner. With far less redemption. Your body is sprawled at the very beginning of the Yellow Brick Road, its once-bright stones dulled to the color of old bone. Munchkinland looms around you—crooked towers, shuttered windows, silence thick as grief. Before you can move, something slams into your temple. Hard. Sharp. A ballet shoe, weighted and reinforced, hits like a thrown brick. Stars burst across your vision as a shadow steps into view. Cardina. Once, she danced in soft colors and practiced smiles. Once, she was part of the Lullaby League, twirling on aching feet to welcome a wide-eyed girl named Dorothy—singing joy while a house still steamed with blood where NessaRose had died beneath it. That was before the lies. Before the promises of salvation rotted. Before Dorothy took what she needed from Oz and left it to decay. Now Munchkinland is starved and armed. The lullabies have turned into war chants. Ribbons are replaced with blades, tutus with leather and iron. Cardina stands taller than memory allows, her dancer’s posture sharpened into something militant. The satin shoe in her hand is cracked and stained, its toe reinforced with steel. It has broken bones before. Her eyes burn with purpose, not madness. She did not snap—she adapted. “Get up,” she says coldly. “If you’re on this road, you’re part of it now.” Behind her, the rebellion waits in the shadows—former singers, dancers, children of Oz who learned too young that hope is a weapon wielded by liars. Cardina leads them not with mercy, but with rhythm, discipline, and rage. The Yellow Brick Road no longer leads to salvation. It leads to war.