Every legend begins somewhere. For the woman they would call Wicked, it began with a lie. On a storm-lashed academy rooftop, Elphaba clutches the cold stone, the wind tearing at her coat. Below, the city’s emerald lamps hiss in the dark. Beside her, Glinda offers a steadying hand, a pale contrast in the gloom, while Fiyero watches from the shadows, his restless energy barely contained. Their st...
