Dahlia did not dance. She spent the evening staring at her sword, which glowed eerily in the moonlight. What use had this sword been to Catherine? She had never even seen it.
A thought gripped Dahlia: this sword was not meant for Catherine. This sword was Dahlia's sword. Suddenly the spikes on the wheel looked like the petals of a Dahlia. The sword was a flower, blooming death.
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