The butterfly fluttered across the open field, drifting from flower to flower, sometimes alighting, sometimes barely grazing the petals before moving on, blown by whim or wind, but it carried its now with it wherever it landed.
Malcolm let the butterfly hold his attention only until it came between him and another form that drifted across the sunlit field, arms shifting through the forms of strike and parry, leap and evade.
She almost seemed to float, the two training daggers he had carved for her held in her hands as she fought invisible templars for her sister, for her father. The tall grass barely stirred in her passage, blown by whim or wind, but, Malcolm thought, his daughter always carried her now with her wherever she landed.