We Paint The World A Bit Redder
The knight, as always, obeyed without hesitation. He unsheathed the blade and placed it into her outstretched hands. Daffodil's fingers curled around the hilt, her grip tight and steady. For a moment, she stared at the weapon, her eyes tracing its edge, her expression unreadable.
Then, with a small nod to herself, she turned and began to walk toward the garden.
She moved slowly, deliberately, each step measured as if this walk held great significance. The knights and servants followed her at a distance, their soulless eyes watching her without emotion. I trailed behind, helpless to stop her, though I already knew what she intended.
In the center of the garden, beneath the grand marble fountain that had long since been overgrown by the paper flowers, Daffodil stopped. She stood amidst the endless sea of canvas.
And now, her face felt serene, her eyes bright with purpose.