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. The enchantress
shrieked in rage and reached out to catch the doll. Her
fingers closed on thin air.
The figurine struck the altar and shattered into a
thousand pale shards - dirty, broken bones. The wind died
as suddenly as it had started. The tree monster shuddered
and collapsed into a pile of inanimate wood and leaves.
Trevarre stumbled backward, leaning on his sword to keep
from falling. His face was ashen, his breathing hard.
"What have you done?" Ciri shrieked, her sapphire-blue
eyes wide with astonishment and horror.
"I've given you what you wanted," Matya cried.
"You're free now, Ciri. Just let Trevarre go. That's all I
ask."
Ciri shook her head, but her lips moved wordlessly
now. She took a few steps toward Matya, each one slower
than the last. Her movements had become strangely halting,
as if she were walking through water, not air. The
enchantress reached out a hand, but whether the gesture
was one of fury or supplication, Matya did not know.
Suddenly, Ciri shuddered and stood motionless. For a
moment, the figure of the enchantress stood there among
the ruins, as pale and perfect as a porcelain doll. Her eyes
glimmered like clear, soulless gems.
Then, even as Matya watched, a fine crack traced its
way across the smooth surface of Ciri's lovely face. More
cracks spread from it, snaking their way across Ciri's
cheeks, her throat, her arms. As if she had been fashioned
of porcelain herself, Ciri crumbled into a mound of
countless fragments, a heap of yellowed bones - all that
was left of the enchantress
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