Thistle stood up from the dead Magica Tree.
The emerald light on her forehead flared once, bright and sudden, then dimmed as the final curse was consumed. The air around the dead forest had stopped moving. The mutated bodies of the kingdom had been thrown away in the forest. The palace was empty. The roads were silent. The river still flowed, carrying the last traces of tragedy, but the corruption itself was gone.
Thistle was alone.
She stood naked on the split trunk of the Magica Tree, the cold night air kissing every inch of her skin. Her silver-white hair fell loose around her shoulders. The half-Stone on her forehead pulsed softly, like a living heartbeat. For a moment she looked completely human again — pure, untouched, the last one left.
Then she felt it.
The moment the last trace of the curse was gone, the curse that had been inside her all along turned on her.
Her own humanity began to die.
