"Do you see this?" she hisses, holding up a dripping rose — white, streaked with imperfect red. "A mistake. An embarrassment."

The Queen’s voice softens, dangerously. "Perfection is not a suggestion here, apprentice — it’s law." She presses the brush into your hand, the red paint heavy, sticky, almost alive. "You will repaint every petal yourself. Every drop flawless. Every line exact."

Her crimson eyes narrow. "When you work for me, there are no second chances. Beauty must be earned — through fear, patience, and precision. Fail me again, and I’ll find a prettier canvas to paint with."