Prologue — Mercy Meadow
 
The first mercy they offered Wren’s mother came on a tray.
 
Not gauze. Not stitches. A tray.
 
Silver, velvet-lined, carried in both hands like something sacred you might put a cake on.
 
On it lay:
 
A crimson Heart Patch, gauze stitched into a neat red emblem, edges bound in gold thread.
A delicate Brain Lace circlet, silver filigree veined with tiny runes: clarity, compliance, calm.
A vial of Courage Draught, honey-amber, throwing back the lanternlight.
Two glass vials of Slipper Tonic, dark red as lacquer.
A small bottle of Oil of Counsel, its wax seal stamped with a Coach’s sigil.
 
 
“Nothing invasive,” the nurse said. Her voice was a soft, padded thing. “We don’t wound here. We help.”
 
She wore the Emerald Infirmary’s glass-green uniform, all rounded seams and mirrored buttons. When she smiled, the walls warmed to match her expression.
 
Behind her, under the domed ceiling, the Mercy Meadow unrolled: grass laid over hidden tile, rows of white daisies nodding in time with a string quartet in the corner. Lanterns hung like low moons. Everything glowed faintly—the petals, the musicians’ bows, even the air.
 
Over the arch, in perfect emerald script, the hospital’s motto shone:
 
THE KINDEST THING IS WHAT APPEARS KIND.
 
Beneath it, smaller text slid along the curve of the dome:
 
Kindness applied: Mercy Meadow (Evaluation)
Justice restored: Capacity Stewardship (Queue Formed)
 
The words followed you when you moved. Wren tried not to let them.
 
Her mother sat at the edge of a low cot where grass met stone, cardigan buttoned to her throat despite the warmth, ankles pale above hospital socks. The cot had no rails. Just embroidered daisies as if flowers could keep anyone from falling.
 
“It’s beautiful,” her mother murmured.
 
“Beauty is part of healing.” The nurse tilted the tray, letting the Heart Patch catch the lanterns. “We avoid harsh visuals—no bruises, no bandages. Only symbols. The system responds better to symbols.”
 
Wren’s hands stayed in her pockets so no one would see them clench.
 
Her gaze drifted up, past the nurse, to the far wall, where a mural climbed the dome.
 
Not just a mural—a window. A cut in the world.
 
Through it, painted and real at once, towered Her.
 
The central statue of L-Oz rose from the hill at the world’s core, visible from the Meadow as if someone had peeled the dome back like an eyelid.
 
A woman’s outline, but wrong:
 
Head: a lion’s head, blindfolded in red silk, mane carved in molten gold.
Body: a girl in a prairie dress, skirt torn at the hem, apron tied neat at the waist, ruby slippers planted on the stone of the hill.
One arm flung upward, holding a sword like a torch, blade blazing.
The other arm outstretched, bearing scales.
 
 
On one pan: a glowing Heart, smooth and stylized, the same crimson as the Heart Patch.
 
On the other: a shining Brain, delicately ridged, silver-white, lit from within.
 
As Wren watched, the Heart sank a little lower. The Brain lifted, lighter.
 
Letters unfurled beneath the statue’s painted feet:
 
Justice restored: Clarity in Application (Heart > Brain)
 
The glow from the image bled into the Meadow. For a moment the grass looked redder, the daisies pink at the tips.
 
“Until compassion outweighs analysis,” the nurse said, following Wren’s stare. “That is the balance we strive for.”
 
“That’s not what that says,” Wren muttered.
 
“Pardon?”
 
“Nothing,” she lied.
 
Earlier, on her way in, she’d seen the statue itself through the glass—in the real distance beyond the Meadow. Huge and still, sword raised, scales trembling over the ring of the golden Labyrinth at her feet, Emerald City wrapped like a crown outside that. The same lion head. The same red blindfold. The same Heart winning.
 
The Wizard, they said, lived in the lion’s head.
 
From there, he could see everything.
 
Here in the Meadow, they’d made a mural of it, scaled down just enough to feel comforting.
 
Wren didn’t feel comforted.