The spiral staircase seemed longer on the way up.
Glinda ascended from the dungeons, the damp chill of Morrible's cell clinging to her pink satin like a second skin. Her mind was racing. Parasite. Fraud.
She pushed open the heavy door at the top of the stairs, expecting the quiet of the service corridor.
Instead, she walked into a wall of sound.
"This is unacceptable!" a deep voice bellowed. "We cannot have localized weather patterns dictated by a—"
"It saved the crop, you fool!" another voice shouted back. "Would you prefer famine?"
"I prefer stability! I prefer the laws of nature, not... sorcery!"
Glinda stepped into the hallway. It was crowded. Pincus was there, looking like a deer caught in headlights, surrounded by a group of men in heavy woolen coats—the Regional Governors.
These weren't the sycophants of the Emerald City. These were the power players from the outer districts—the Gillikin North, the Munchkin East. They had arrived unannounced.
Pincus spotted her. "Your Royal Goodness!" he squeaked, relief washing over his face. "The Governors... they arrived early for the Council session. They heard about the rain."
The arguing stopped. Five pairs of eyes turned to Glinda.
Governor Thropp (a distant cousin of Elphaba's family, a sour man from the East) stepped forward. He looked at her disheveled hair and the mud on the hem of her dress from the dungeon floor.
"So," Thropp sneered. "It is true. You are conjuring."
Glinda straightened her spine. She clasped her white gloved hands in front of her. "Governor. I wasn't aware we had an appointment."
"We don't need an appointment when the sky turns purple and rains only on the western quadrant," a woman in a stiff grey suit snapped. It was Governor Kray of the Gillikin Country—the industrial hub. "My factories in the North are in a drought, Glinda. But the Vinkus gets a deluge? Is this how you plan to rule? Playing favorites with the weather?"
"It was an emergency," Glinda said, walking past them toward the main corridor. They swarmed around her like angry wasps.
"It is destabilizing," Kray argued, matching her pace. "The Wizard promised us order. He promised us science. If you start waving a wand every time there is a problem, you undermine the entire infrastructure. The workers are terrified. They think the Wicked Witch has returned."
Glinda stopped. She turned on Kray.
"The Wicked Witch is dead," Glinda said, her voice hard.
"Is she?" Thropp asked quietly. "Because unauthorized magic is a crime, Glinda. A crime you helped write into law two years ago."
The hallway went silent.
This was the trap. The political vacuum. The Wizard was gone, but his laws—and his hatred of magic—remained. Glinda was trying to save them with the very thing they had been brainwashed to hate.
"There are factions forming in the lower districts," Thropp continued, his voice low and dangerous. "They are calling themselves the 'Sons of the Wizard.' They are smashing shop windows that sell potions. They are hunting talking Animals again. And now, you give them this? A magical storm? You are pouring gasoline on a fire."
Glinda looked at them. She saw the fear beneath their anger. They didn't just want water or grain. They wanted to know who was in charge of reality.
"I am not the Wizard," Glinda said, her voice projecting clearly, the 'Good Witch' tone replaced by something colder, sharper. "The Wizard built his stability on lies and cages. I am building mine on survival."
She stepped closer to Kray, towering over her in her heels.
"The Vinkus needed water. I gave them water. If the Gillikin Country needs aid, file a request. But do not storm into my palace and lecture me on 'unauthorized magic' while I am the only one keeping the land of Oz from starving."
She swept her gaze over the group.
"The Throne is empty because I choose to leave it empty. But make no mistake—I am the one holding the ceiling up. If you push me, I might just let it drop on your heads."
The Governors stared at her, stunned. They had expected bubbles. They had expected apologies. They had not expected a threat.
"Now," Glinda said, turning away. "Get out of my way. I have work to do."
She marched through them, Pincus scrambling to follow.
"Pincus," she hissed as they rounded the corner out of earshot.
"Y-yes, Your Goodness?"
"Double the guard on the Animal Quarters. If these 'Sons of the Wizard' touch a single goat, I want them arrested. And find out who is leading them."
"Yes, Glinda. Where are you going?"
"To finish what I started."
Glinda reached the double doors of her study. She felt like she had run a marathon.
The politics were crumbling. The Governors were turning on her. The populace was splitting into pro-magic and anti-magic mobs.
But she had one ally. The Ink Ghost.
She threw the bolt on the door. She crossed the room in three strides.
The Grimmerie was exactly where she had left it. Closed. Silent.
Glinda sat down. She peeled off the white satin gloves, wincing slightly. Her hands were still red and raw from where she had scrubbed them that morning, but as she flexed her fingers in the cool air, she saw that the skin was already knitting back together.
It wasn't magical rot. It was just soap and panic.
She tossed the gloves onto the desk and opened the heavy cover of the book.
The smell of ozone hit her immediately. The book was awake.
She flipped to the back page. She grabbed the quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote in sharp, cursive letters:
I guided the current. The rain fell.
She waited.
The paper absorbed her ink.
A heartbeat later, new ink began to bleed up from the page. It was that same jet-black, glistening fluid.
I know. I felt the pressure change.
Glinda's heart hammered. I felt. The writer was here. In Oz. Or close enough to feel the weather.
She dipped the quill again.
Morrible says you are a demon. The Governors say I am a criminal. I need to know who is helping me.
She paused, the nib hovering.
Are you a friend?
The ink bled slowly this time.
I am the one holding the other end of the rope.
Glinda frowned. It was a cryptic non-answer.
That isn't a name, she wrote furiously. WHO ARE YOU?
The ink pooled, thick and dark. It swirled, forming letters that were larger, more jagged than before.
Names are dangerous, Glinda. Especially in this palace.
Glinda stared at the page. They knew her name. They knew where she was.
Are you watching me? she wrote.
The ink bled again, faster this time.
I am listening. I heard what you told the Governors in the hallway.
Glinda froze. The blood drained from her face. That conversation had happened three minutes ago, two floors down.
You're in the palace, she wrote, her hand shaking.
Focus, the ink commanded, ignoring her panic. The Governors are right about one thing. The Sons of the Wizard are mobilizing. Check the Northern Silos. Tonight.
Glinda stared at the warning.
Why?
Because that is where the fire starts.
The ink stopped bleeding. The page went dry.
Glinda sat there, the quill hovering over the paper. She was alone in the room. But for the first time in two years, she realized she wasn't alone in the castle.
Someone was here. Someone powerful. Someone who was watching her every move, listening to her every word, and helping her hold the ceiling up.
Glinda closed the book.
She stood up, ignoring the fatigue in her legs. She walked to the window and looked out toward the North. The storm clouds were gathering there, dark and heavy.
She didn't know who the writer was. She didn't know if they were a ghost, a spy, or a monster.
But if the Northern Silos were in danger, she didn't have time to be afraid.
"Pincus," Glinda said, her voice cutting through the panic in the hallway. "Cancel the Council session. Cancel the tea with the Ambassadors. Cancel everything."
"But—but where are you going?" Pincus stammered, chasing her down the corridor, his short legs pumping to keep up. "The Governors are still in the East Wing! They are demanding answers!"
"Let them demand," Glinda said, not breaking stride. "I'm going North."
She reached the double doors of the Royal Wardrobe and threw them open.
It wasn't just a closet; it was a vault of silk and velvet. Rows of gowns hung like suspended ghosts, color-coded from blush to fuchsia. Walls of shoes glittered under the crystal chandeliers. It was a room designed for vanity, but tonight, Glinda treated it like an armory.
She walked past the pinks. She needed something stronger.
She went to the back, to the section reserved for State Dinners and Royal Mourning. Her eyes landed on a gown she hadn't touched since the Wizard's departure.
It was magnificent. It wasn't pink; it was champagne. Layers upon layers of stiff, structural tulle created a skirt that looked like a storm cloud caught in a sunset. The bodice was encrusted with crystals that spiraled upward like frost—sharp, blinding, and impenetrable.
"Help me," she ordered the startled handmaidens. "Now."
They moved fast. The soft lavender morning dress was unhooked and discarded. The champagne gown was stepped into. The corset was laced—tight, tighter, until Glinda felt her spine turn to steel.
She stood before the tri-fold mirror. The dress was massive, occupying half the room. She didn't look like a doll in it. She looked like a fortress.
"The crown?" a handmaiden asked, reaching for the heavy gold one.
"No," Glinda said. "The tiara. The sharp one."
She picked up a delicate piece of silver and diamond work. It sat high on her head, spiking upward like icicles. It didn't weigh her down. It made her look dangerous.
She turned to the velvet display case in the center of the island. There, resting on a pillow, was her wand.
The Star Wand. Long, silver, topped with a burst of crystal snowflakes.
She reached out and grabbed it. It felt cool and heavy in her palm, an extension of her own arm. She stepped back, giving herself room. With a flick of her wrist—a movement so practiced it blurred—she spun the wand.
Whoosh-snap.
It cut the air with a low hum, stopping instantly with the tip pointed at the floor. It wasn't a performance. It was a weapon check.
"Pincus," she said, catching the reflection of her terrified aide in the mirror. "If the Governors ask where I am, tell them I went to put out a fire."
"By carriage?" Pincus asked, eyeing the massive dress.
Glinda turned, the tulle rustling like dry leaves.
"No," she said. "By air."
The wind on the Grand Terrace was screaming.
Glinda marched to the center of the platform—a circular dais of gold and green art deco metalwork left behind by the Wizard. In the center, inlaid in brass, were the instructions: TAP TO BUBBLE.
She stepped onto the platform, her champagne skirt filling the circle. She looked North. The sky there was a bruise of purple and black.
She lifted her right foot, the crystal heel catching the light, and brought it down hard on the pressure plate.
CLICK.
A low, mechanical hum vibrated through her shoes. From the rim of the platform, a mist began to rise—iridescent liquid light spiraling upward, knitting together into a translucent wall.
The Bubble closed over her head with a soft pop, sealing out the wind. The howling gale was replaced by a quiet, electric hum.
Glinda raised the wand.
"Ascend."
The Bubble surged upward. It didn't float; it launched. Glinda watched the Emerald City shrink below her, the green roofs and yellow roads turning into a map. She banked North, pushing the sphere to its limit, becoming a streak of champagne light cutting through the gloom.
The Gillikin Country did not glitter.
Below the curvature of the bubble, the landscape shifted to a jagged quilt of grey smokestacks and brown fields. This was the industrial heart of Oz, and right now, it was drowning in the storm she had summoned.
Glinda gripped her wand. Rain lashed against the bubble, streaking the surface with grey rivulets.
Ahead, the Northern Silos loomed out of the downpour like rusted fortress towers. They were massive cylinders of riveted steel, holding the kingdom's entire winter reserve.
"Check the Silos," the Ink Ghost had written.
Glinda scanned the dark complex. It looked abandoned.
Then she saw it.
A flicker at the base of Silo 4. A spark of orange light against the wet steel.
It wasn't a lantern. It was a torch.
"Drop," Glinda commanded.
The bubble plummeted. The stomach-churning fall made her knees buckle, but she forced herself to stand upright. She aimed for the steel gantry midway up the silo.
Thrummm.
The bubble hovered inches above the rusted metal grating. With a wave of her wand, the sphere dissolved.
The wind hit her like a physical blow. It tore at the layers of her tulle skirt, whipping the fabric around her legs. The rain soaked her instantly, plastering the crystal bodice to her chest, but Glinda didn't feel the cold.
She ran to the railing and looked down.
Five men. Dressed in dark oilskin coats, faces obscured by heavy engineering goggles. They were clustered around a ventilation intake at the base of the tower.
They weren't just lighting a fire. They were rigging copper wiring to a canister marked with the hazard symbol for "Combustible Aether."
They were building a bomb.
If that canister detonated inside the vent, the grain dust would ignite. The explosion would level the entire complex.
One of the men struck a flare. The red light washed over their goggles.
Glinda didn't hesitate. She raised the Star Wand.
"Illumina!"
A bolt of blinding white light shot from the tip, striking the metal railing next to the men.
BANG.
The men scrambled back, dropping the canister. The flare sputtered in the mud.
"Step away from the intake!" Glinda's voice boomed, amplified by magic to sound like thunder.
The leader looked up. He was big, wearing a leather apron. He saw the woman on the gantry—the spikes of her tiara, the storm-cloud dress, the glowing wand.
"It's the Witch!" he roared. "Blow the tank! Now!"
The man with the flare scrambled back toward the canister, raising the red light.
"No!" Glinda hissed. She slashed her wand downward.
"Ventus!"
A concentrated blast of wind hammered the man into the mud. The flare flew from his hand, arching toward the fuel puddle.
Glinda pointed. "Aqua!"
A jet of high-pressure water shot from her wand, dousing the flare in a hiss of steam.
The leader snarled. He reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy, steam-powered pistol.
"Kill her!"
He fired. Crack-hiss.
Glinda spun, throwing her hand out.
"Protego!"
A shimmer of pink energy flared. The metal slug hit the shield and disintegrated, but the kinetic force slammed Glinda backward. Her heel caught on the wet grating. She stumbled, crashing into the railing, her heavy dress dragging her down.
Two more men drew weapons below. They started climbing the stairs.
Glinda crouched behind the rusted metal, pinned. She couldn't summon the bubble—it was too slow. Bullets pinged off the railing above her head.
She was trapped.
She looked at the metal stairs. She looked at the rain pouring down in sheets. She looked at the puddles forming around the men's boots.
Water conducts.
Glinda stood up, exposing herself to the fire. She didn't aim at the men. She aimed at the storm clouds above.
She twirled the wand, the crystal tip acting as a lightning rod, pulling the static charge down from the sky. The wand hummed, vibrating violently in her hand, glowing a terrifying, crackling blue.
She slammed the tip down onto the metal railing.
"FULGUR!"
A blinding arc of blue electricity shot from the wand. It raced through the railing, jumped to the wet stairs, and cascaded down like a waterfall of light.
It hit the puddle at the bottom.
CRACK-BOOM.
The shockwave knocked the men off their feet. They seized up, shaking violently as the current tore through them, before collapsing into the mud in a smoking heap.
Silence returned to the silos.
Glinda stood on the gantry, gasping for air. Smoke curled from the tip of her wand. Her arm was numb. Her dress was ruined, soaked heavy with rain and rust.
She waited.
The men didn't move.
Glinda gripped the railing, her legs trembling. She made her way down the stairs, stepping over the unconscious bodies. She knelt beside the leader.
His coat had fallen open. Pinned to the inside of his lapel was a silver badge.
It wasn't the Wizard's crest. It was a Cog with a Sword and a Fan.
"The Unionists," Glinda breathed, horror cold in her chest.
These weren't just rioters. This was an ancient anti-magic paramilitary cell. They were organized. They were armed. And they were trying to starve the city.
Glinda stood up, the rain washing the mud from her gloves.
The Ink Ghost was right. The war hadn't ended when the Witch melted. It had just changed shape.
She tapped her wand against her chest, summoning the last of her strength. She needed to get back to the Palace. She needed to tell the Ghost that the fire was out.
And she needed to find out how a man with no brain knew about a bomb in the Gillikin Country.