The air in the East Wing tasted of old copper and fear.
Glinda walked away from the heavy oak door of Minister Borris's quarters, the rhythmic, sharp clack, clack, clack of her sensible heels echoing against the marble floors like a gavel striking wood. The sheer force of the Veritas spell still hummed in her veins, a residual, electric vibration that made her fingertips ache inside her white satin gloves.
She checked the delicate silver watch pinned to the lapel of her icy pink wool suit.
8:12 AM.
She had less than two hours before the courier from Shiz University arrived. Two hours to intercept the physical link between the opulent halls of her alma mater and the violent, desperate paramilitary cells trying to burn her kingdom to the ground.
Shiz.
The name rattled in her skull, dislodging memories she had spent two years burying under layers of royal duties and statecraft. She remembered the golden spires of the university, the sprawling green lawns, the smell of ancient parchment and the intoxicating, arrogant thrill of believing they were the smartest, most important youth in all of Oz. She remembered Madame Morrible standing at the podium, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade, teaching them that magic was a tool for the elite, and that the Animals were nothing more than beasts of burden waiting to be cataloged.
And she remembered Elphaba.
Elphaba, with her fierce, uncompromising eyes, sitting in the back of the lecture hall, rejecting every polished lie the institution tried to feed her. Shiz hadn't just been a school; it had been an incubator for the regime. And now, it seemed, the incubator was still running, churning out terror in the name of "order."
Glinda turned a sharp corner, bypassing the Grand Staircase entirely. She couldn't afford to be seen by the Governors or Pincus. If she was going to lay a trap, she needed to vanish into the arteries of the Palace—the service corridors, the laundry shoots, the hidden passageways the Wizard had used to maintain his illusion of omnipresence.
The transition from the public wings to the service corridors was jarring. The plush, rose-gold carpets gave way to cold, uneven flagstones. The glowing bioluminescent globes were replaced by sputtering gas lamps that cast long, distorted shadows against the bare stone walls.
It was freezing down here, but Glinda didn't shiver. The severe cut of her suit, combined with the boiling anger in her chest, kept the cold at bay. The heavy leather mass of the Grimmerie was pressed tightly against her hip, a dark, pulsing anchor. It felt heavier now, as if the book itself was feeding on her adrenaline.
Guide the current. Don't push it.
The Ink Ghost's words flashed in her mind. Who was the Ghost? If Shiz University was running the Sons of the Wizard, could the Ghost be a Shiz academic playing a double game? Was she being guided, or was she being manipulated into a position where her magic could be exposed and weaponized?
"One problem at a time," she whispered to the empty stone corridor. Her breath plumed in the cold air. "First the letters. Then the ghost."
She navigated the labyrinthine basement levels until she reached a set of massive, brass-bound double doors: the Royal Mail Depot.
By 9:30 AM, this cavernous room would be a hive of chaotic activity, swarming with clerks, delivery boys, and sorting masters. But right now, it was a graveyard of canvas sacks and wooden crates. The air smelled sharply of melting sealing wax, damp wool, and the distinct, metallic tang of ink.
Glinda slipped inside, letting the heavy doors close silently behind her.
The depot was dominated by massive sorting tables and towering pigeonholes that reached all the way to the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight struggled through the high, grimy clerestory windows, cutting through the floating dust motes in thick, diagonal shafts.
"Sola," Glinda said. She didn't shout, but she pitched her voice to carry into the shadowy recesses of the room.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of a distant steam pipe clanking.
Then, a rustle.
From the shadows near the loading bay doors, a tall, elegant figure stepped into the light. Sola the Crane moved with her jerky, dignified grace, her slate-grey tipped wings folded meticulously against her rose-gold linen tunic. She was holding a clipboard in one wing-tip, a quill tucked neatly behind her ear.
"Your Goodness," Sola said, her clear contralto voice betraying no surprise at seeing the Ruler of Oz lurking in the mailroom. Sola's sharp, black, bead-like eyes tracked over Glinda's outfit—the severe wool, the lack of tulle, the sharp, dangerous silver tiara resting on her tight chignon. "You look... different today. You are not dressed for a parade."
"I am dressed for pest control," Glinda said, striding forward, the Grimmerie resting heavily against her side. "I need your help, Sola."
Sola tilted her long neck, setting the clipboard down on a sorting table. "The cage is open, Glinda. You have only to ask."
"In less than an hour, a courier from Shiz University will arrive at those loading bay doors," Glinda said, pointing to the massive wooden archway that led out to the delivery courtyard. "He is carrying a satchel of correspondence intended for Minister Borris. Those letters are funding the paramilitary cells in the North. They paid for the bomb at the silos."
Sola's eyes darkened. A low, clicking sound came from the back of her throat—a sound of deep, instinctual avian anger. "The fire. My sister's chicks..."
"Are safe," Glinda interrupted gently, taking a step closer. "But they won't remain safe if I don't sever this supply line. I need to intercept the courier before he drops the satchel into the general sorting bins. If those letters get mixed into the palace mail system, I will never find them, and the money will keep flowing."
"You wish to lay an ambush," Sola observed accurately.
"I need eyes in the rafters," Glinda said, looking up at the massive oak beams that crisscrossed the high ceiling of the depot. "If I stand in the open, he will run the moment he sees me. I will hide in the old tack room near the bay doors. But I won't be able to see him approach. I need a spotter."
Sola looked up at the rafters. The shadows there were deep and absolute.
"It is dangerous," Glinda added softly, the weight of her request pressing down on her. "If he is a Shiz operative, he might be armed. The Sons of the Wizard carry steam-pistols. I would not ask this of you if I had any other choice, Sola. But you are the only one in this palace I know I can trust."
The Crane stood perfectly still. For a moment, the only sound was the distant rhythm of the waking city outside the thick walls. Then, Sola spread her wings. The sheer span of them was breathtaking—snow-white feathers catching the dusty light.
"A cage is safe, Glinda," Sola said, her voice dropping to a fierce, steady whisper. "But the sky is dangerous. I prefer the danger. Listen for the sound of a snapping branch."
With a powerful thrust of her legs and a singular, deafening beat of her wings, Sola launched herself into the air. She caught the slight updraft from the heating grates, spiraling upward until she vanished entirely into the gloom of the high oak rafters.
Glinda watched her go, a profound sense of gratitude tightening her chest. She turned and walked toward the small, abandoned tack room situated just beside the massive loading doors.
The room was cramped, smelling of rotted leather harnesses and ancient horse sweat. Glinda stepped inside, pulling the heavy door almost completely shut, leaving only a half-inch crack to see the main floor.
She set the Grimmerie down on an overturned crate. It hummed instantly, a low vibration that traveled up her arms. She drew the Star Wand from the inner pocket of her suit. It felt cold and clinical in her grip.
She raised the wand, pointing it at the crack in the door.
"Obscuro," she breathed.
A subtle ripple of magic passed over the doorway. The spell bent the ambient light, rendering the gap in the door a flat, impenetrable patch of shadow to anyone looking in from the outside.
Now, she waited.
9:15 AM.
The minutes stretched into agonies. The mail depot began to slowly come alive. A few junior clerks arrived, yawning, carrying mugs of bitter tea, beginning to sort the local overnight parcels. They didn't notice the patch of unnatural shadow in the tack room. They didn't notice the massive white bird hiding in the beams above their heads.
Glinda stood as still as a statue. She practiced the breathing exercises she had read in the margins of the Grimmerie. She pushed the panic down, compartmentalizing the betrayal of her university, the terror of Borris's confession, and the looming threat of the Ink Ghost. She locked it all away in a tight, mental box. Right now, she was only a hunter.
9:45 AM.
The heavy wooden doors of the loading bay were thrown open from the outside by two palace guards. The crisp morning air rushed in, carrying the sound of horse hooves on cobblestones, the shouting of merchants, and the grinding of wagon wheels. The delivery hour had begun.
Glinda tightened her grip on the wand. Her knuckles ached inside the silk gloves.
9:58 AM.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
A new set of footsteps approached the loading ramp. They were light, hurried, and sharply distinct from the heavy boots of the delivery men.
Through the crack in the door, Glinda saw him.
He was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. He did not wear the rough spun wool of a working courier. He wore a sharply tailored navy blue blazer. Over his heart, embroidered in heavy silver thread, was the crest of Shiz University—a stylized 'S' entwined with an olive branch.
He carried a thick, reinforced leather satchel strapped tightly across his chest. His hand rested over the brass buckle, his knuckles white. His eyes darted around the busy depot, tracking the guards and the clerks. He looked terrified.
He stepped over the threshold, moving away from the safety of the open courtyard and into the dimmer light of the mailroom.
TICK-TICK-CRACK.
The sound echoed from the high rafters. It was sharp, sudden, and sounded exactly like a heavy pine branch fracturing under the weight of winter snow.
Sola's signal.
The Shiz student froze. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes wide.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking slightly, betraying his youth. "Is someone up there?"
He took a slow step backward, moving closer to the shadows of the tack room.
Glinda dropped the Obscuro charm.
She kicked the tack room door open. It slammed against the stone wall with a concussive BANG.
The student whipped around, his hand diving into his blazer.
Glinda stepped out into the light. She didn't look like a Queen. She looked like an executioner. The pale pink wool of her suit absorbed the ambient light, and the silver tiara glinted with murderous intent.
"I wouldn't," Glinda said, her voice echoing through the suddenly silent depot. The clerks dropped their parcels. The delivery men froze.
The student stared at her, the blood draining completely from his face. He recognized her. He was staring at the face that was plastered on every coin and every poster in the city.
"Y-Your Royal Goodness," he stammered, pulling his hand out of his jacket, empty. He executed a clumsy, panicked bow. "I... I wasn't expecting... I am just a student. Delivering the academic circulars for Minister Borris."
"Are you?" Glinda asked, taking a slow, predatory step forward. She raised the Star Wand, pointing the crystal tip directly at his chest. "How unfortunate for you. Because Minister Borris is currently indisposed. He had a sudden and violently transparent change of heart over breakfast."
The boy took a step back. His heel caught on a cobblestone, and he stumbled slightly. The fear in his eyes morphed into something else. It was the frantic, cornered look of a zealot who realizes the trap has sprung.
He didn't surrender.
With terrifying speed, he reached back into his blazer. He didn't pull a steam-pistol. He pulled a small, thick glass vial filled with a violently swirling, luminous green liquid.
"For the Wizard!" he screamed, smashing the vial directly against the leather satchel strapped to his chest.
"No!" Glinda roared.
The liquid ignited the moment it struck the air. A burst of brilliant, roaring green fire erupted over the satchel, burning with the unnatural, localized heat of an alchemical forge. He wasn't trying to fight her. He was destroying the evidence.
Glinda slashed the wand through the air, her mind snapping instantly to the elemental pages of the Grimmerie.
"Aqua Extinguo!"
A jet of high-pressure, freezing water exploded from the tip of the Star Wand. It hit the boy like a physical battering ram, slamming him backward off his feet. He crashed onto the wet stone floor, gasping for air.
The water hammered against the green fire. The magic fought back, hissing violently, filling the mail depot with a thick, sulfurous steam that smelled of rotten eggs and burned leather. But the water was stronger. The green flames sputtered, choked, and died, leaving the satchel smoking and blackened.
Glinda strode through the steam, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply. The mail clerks had flattened themselves against the walls in sheer terror.
She stood over the coughing, soaked student.
She didn't offer him a hand. She dropped to one knee, ignoring the mud and water soaking into the pristine wool of her skirt. She grabbed the ruined satchel, tearing the weakened brass buckle completely off its hinges.
She plunged her gloved hand inside the wet leather.
She pulled out a thick, heavy stack of parchment envelopes. The edges were singed black, and the wax seals were melted into unreadable blobs, but the paper itself had survived the blast. The letters were intact.
Glinda stood up, clutching the correspondence. She looked down at the boy in the Shiz uniform. He was clutching his ribs, shivering violently in the cold water.
"Who gave you this satchel?" she demanded, her voice like cracking ice.
The boy spat a mouthful of water onto the floor. He glared up at her, his teeth chattering. The fear was gone, replaced by a cold, indoctrinated hatred that turned her stomach.
"You're a witch," he sneered, quoting the pamphlets that littered the Northern districts. "You're a parasite. You're going to melt just like the green one."
Glinda stared at him. A profound, hollow sadness washed over her. Two years ago, this boy had been sitting in a classroom, learning history. Now, he was a foot soldier in a war he didn't understand, willing to burn himself alive to protect men who would never know his name.
"Guards," Glinda said quietly, not looking away from his eyes.
The palace guards, finally breaking out of their shock, rushed forward, hauling the dripping student to his feet and binding his hands with heavy iron cuffs.
"Take him to the dungeons," Glinda ordered, turning her back on him. "Put him in the cell directly across from Madame Morrible. If they want to talk about the good old days at the university, let them do it in the dark."
The guards dragged the shouting boy away.
Glinda stood alone in the center of the damp, silent mailroom. She looked down at the letters in her hands. She broke the melted wax seal on the top envelope with her thumb and pulled out the thick, water-stained parchment.
The ink inside was perfectly preserved, typed on an expensive mechanical typewriter.
Glinda's eyes scanned the text.
Minister Borris,
The distribution of funds to the Unionist cells in the North is proceeding too slowly. The public must associate unauthorized magic with immediate danger. Escalate the timeline. The girl in the pink dress is cracking under the pressure. Our sources inside the palace confirm she is actively using the Grimmerie. Once she is fully corrupted by the text, the Council will have no choice but to beg us to step in and restore order.
Do not fail the University. Do not fail Oz.
Glinda read the words three times. The ambient noise of the depot faded into a low, ringing drone in her ears.
Our sources inside the palace confirm she is actively using the Grimmerie.
Her breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out along her spine, prickling beneath the heavy wool suit.
Only a handful of people in the entire world knew the book was open. Sola knew. The Governors suspected. And...
I am the one holding the pen, the ghost had written in the margins.
Glinda looked up, staring blindly at the vaulted ceiling. If Shiz University knew she was using the book, they weren't just reacting to her magic. They were counting on it. They were orchestrating crises—like the bomb at the silos—specifically to force her hand. They wanted her to rely on the dark magic. They wanted her to look like a tyrant.
Was the voice in the book a friend trying to guide her? Or was the Ink Ghost a Shiz operative, subtly twisting her spells, manipulating her mind, ensuring her ultimate downfall?
"Glinda."
Sola landed silently beside her, her massive wings folding away. The Crane looked at the ruined letters, then up at Glinda's pale face.
"You found the poison," Sola said quietly.
"I found the cup," Glinda whispered, clutching the parchment so tightly her knuckles ached. "But I don't know who poured it."