Long before Wonderland knew her name, Shara was a quiet flame in the court of Marmoreal. Daughter of a distant realm, she had arrived as a guest—elegant, observant, and strangely attuned to the tremors of emotion that danced beneath royal silks and powdered smiles.

The ceremony was meant to unite the fractured lands. But fate, as always, had other plans. As Iracebeth stepped forward, her crown—too large, too heavy—slipped. Her gown tore. A flamingo squawked. The orchestra collapsed into chaos. And the crowd erupted in laughter.

All except one.

Shara did not laugh

She clenched her fists. Her brown eyes shimmered—not with pity, but with something deeper. Recognition. She saw Iracebeth not as a fool, but as a girl betrayed by spectacle. And in that moment, Wonderland turned its gaze toward Shara. Iracebeth noticed. So did Mirana. But it was the land itself that responded. The vines curled tighter. The mirrors whispered. The tea turned bitter. And Shara—who had always been gentle, kind always been kind—felt something shift. Not cruelty. Not rage. But clarity. She saw how laughter could wound, how beauty could betray, how silence could be power.

That night, she wandered into the Looking Glass Forest. The trees bowed. The shadows welcomed her. And the Cheshire Moon whispered: “You didn’t laugh. That makes you dangerous.” She didn’t return to Marmoreal. She didn’t pledge to Crims. She carved her own realm—Wicked in Wonderland—where empathy wore armor and kindness had claws.

Her attire changed: black silk, sleeveless defiance, wristbands forged from broken tiaras. Her magic? Emotional truth, sharpened like a blade.

Now, when Wonderland speaks of Shara, they speak in hushed tones. Not because she is cruel—but because she remembers. She remembers the girl who fell. The crowd that laughed. And the choice not to join them.

She is wicked, yes. But through and through, she is aware. And that makes her unstoppable.