The Palace of Oz loomed like a shadowed relic of its former self. Its emerald spires, once glittering with light, now lay cracked and crooked beneath a sickly gray sky. The golden gates had rusted, and black vines crept up its walls like a curse made visible.

The crowd surged forward behind Elphaba, their torches flickering like stars in the gloom. Glinda walked just behind her, golden magic humming softly at her fingertips. Ozma, regal and poised, followed without fear. The Winged Monkeys soared overhead like guardians of justice, their wings slicing through the air.

As the palace doors groaned open, a strange silence fell.

A low whistle echoed from the darkness.

And then—floating through the vast marble foyer—came a broom.

Elphaba gasped.

It was her broom. The one taken from her by the Wizard all those years ago. Its handle was worn, its bristles frayed—but it still hummed with the familiar pulse of her magic.

It drifted into her hands.

The moment her fingers wrapped around the shaft, the bristles ignited—burning with a brilliant green flame.

She held it high like a torch.

"This ends tonight," she said, her voice low and sure.

In a high chamber of the palace, cloaked in smoke and flickering torchlight, Morrible stood over her crystal ball, the warped images within showing glimpses of fire and chaos in the streets below.

She smiled, satisfied.

"All of Oz is mine," she murmured. "At last."

The doors to the chamber burst open with a thunderous crash.

Elphaba stormed in, green fire blazing at the end of her broom, the mob flooding behind her like a tide of judgment.

Morrible's expression froze.

"Elphaba?" she said, stunned. "I thought you were dead."

Elphaba stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "Give it up, Morrible. Your reign of terror over Oz is over."

A slow, wicked smile stretched across Morrible's face. "My dear Elphaba… do you really think I'm afraid of you?" Her voice turned cold, mocking. "I'm the one who taught you magic. You wouldn't be a proper sorceress without my help. Without me, you would be nothing."

Elphaba didn't flinch. "You may not be afraid of me," she said, "but I've brought someone you should be afraid of."

The crowd parted like the sea.

Ozma stepped forward, head held high, crown shimmering faintly with restored power.

Morrible paled. "P-P-Princess Ozma?! How did… how did you escape the tower?!"

Ozma's voice was iron. "Silence! You stole my kingdom and put a bumbling fraud in my place. You bewitched the people of Oz, turned them against an innocent woman, and drowned this land in fear. But now—Morrible—the tables have turned. And you shall be punished for your crimes against Oz."

She reached out and grabbed Morrible's wrist.

A burst of golden light exploded between them, and Morrible shrieked. Her body writhed as the power drained from her—sucked away like venom from a wound. Her once-grand robes disintegrated into tatters, and she collapsed to the floor, powerless.

"Guards," Ozma commanded. "Take her to the dungeons. At dawn, she shall be burned at the stake."

Two guards stepped forward and dragged the fallen sorceress away, her screams echoing through the palace halls.

The crowd watched in stunned silence. Then, slowly, a cheer began to rise. And rise. And rise—until the sound shook the rafters.

Elphaba lowered her broom, the flames now calm.

An older Ozian looked out the cracked palace window at the ruined city. His voice was quiet.

"So… what do we do now? There's not much of Oz left."

Ozma stepped beside him, her gaze falling on the shattered kingdom. She took a deep breath.

"Not to worry," she said. "We will rebuild it. With the help of magic…"

She turned, smiling at the two women beside her.

"And with the help of our brave witches."

Glinda met Elphaba's eyes across the throne room. There was pain there, and forgiveness, and understanding. Their hands found each other without a word.

They both looked back out at the ruined city.

They had a kingdom to restore.

And it was only the beginning.