When he sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't die.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father and looks and the little girl with blue eyes that were now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It was like she expected him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, with her magical flowers and blue eyes identical to that of his servant's.
It suddenly occurs to him that he knows very little about his servant, and he wonders his that little girl was his. The idea leaves quickly.
His father brings his arm down, and the torch lights the pyre. She doesn't scream, nor try to evade the flames that lick the wood, and then her clothes, eagerly. Tears stream down her face when they nip her skin, but her gaze holds his. When the flames reach his shoulders, and her eyes scream betrayal, pain, and exhaustion, he cannot bear it any longer and he looks away.
When he moves again, his father is gone, and the guards and the torch-holder are, too. The crowd dissipated hours ago. The December sun is just above the mountain, and the rays remind him eerily of fire. He blinks.
And two white clouds become blue, and the suns rays become fire, and he suddenly sees her eyes all over again, and he knows he will never forget it. And he will always regret not saving that little girl.