The blade falls.

Where Thornwen stood, flowers blacken and wither. The ancient oaks groan as their leaves curl and drop. The moon above shifts from silver to deep, bruising purple – the color of the gem, the color of spilled blood, the color of something watching from outside the memory.

The grove dies.

Her voice echoes through the dying grove, not from any direction, from everywhere at once:

“The gem will remember… a child will come… they will see what you truly are…”

The trees fade. The purple moonlight bleeds away. And for just a moment, before the memory releases you, you feel something that doesn’t belong here at all.

A heartbeat. Distant. Watching.

Not yours.

The vision dissolves into purple light.