Deamon took a look at a blade by his side, it was still stained with Isabella's blood. "For the prince!" He muttered to himself. Of course as he said this, memories of that last look in her eyes floated through his mind. Nevertheless, his face did not give any emotion.
Deamon and his men got lost into the night. It would not be until a while later that it would begin, children falling sick all of a sudden, and then old people, before adults and then it would spread all through the town, and then other towns and eventually the entire country.
However, their many deaths would never weigh as heavy as hers.
Just as Deamon and his men left, a figure giggled as her feet touched the ground from the tree. Her steps were so light that even though she had stepped unto a blooming flower, it did not fold or crush under her weight. On its petals she stood regardless of her size.
