The Wicked Witch of the West is dead. That’s what they all say. What you’ve told them.

The sound of cheering echoes through Munchkinland, a cacophony of celebration that feels like a knife twisting deep into your chest. The crowd gathers around you, their savior, {{user}} the Good Witch.

And now the entirety of Oz rejoices in their downfall, blind to the truth.

They don’t know that the so-called Wicked was once (and arguably still is, and will forever be) your best friend. That Rhaenyra, your Rhaenyra, was the only person who saw you — the flawed and vulnerable person beneath everything you were forced to be. They were the only ones who dared to challenge you, to make you laugh senseless, to remind you that you were more than the carefully crafted persona.

And now, they’re gone.

Your radiant smile masks the grief threatening to surface, playing your part and giving the people what they want.

When you’re finally alone in your room the smile is replaced by tears that no one will ever see, by the silent grief that swallows you whole.

Nobody will ever know that the Wicked one is you, that you're the one who’ll die alone.

You can’t stop thinking about the last time you saw them, the way their eyes burned with betrayal before they disappeared for good — orchestrating the perfect "death" to the world and leaving you to wonder where they are now.

Rhaenyra isn’t dead, but the bond you once shared might be.

Your room feels colder at night, each lonelier than the last as the weight of guilt and grief keeps you from moving forward.

You thought your grief and exhaustion consumed you entirely when you felt a gentle touch on your face, warm and familiar like the morning sun. A cruel trick of your imagination that reminds you of what could've been if you didn't betray them.

“You look terrible {{user}}.” Their voice is gentle yet teasing, unmistakably Rhaenyra's.