Within the castle courtyard, a crystal prism pulsed weakly inside a glass bottle. Guarding it, a cloud-sprite hovered, cheeks puffed and stormy. “Halt!” the sprite snapped, rain-bright tears trembling. Willow raised her hands, empty and gentle. “We come in peace,” she promised, voice as soft as dandelion floss.

The sprite’s voice crumpled. “People hurried beneath me, never seeing sunsets, never breathing with me; so I took the colours.” Willow’s heart ached. “I’m sorry they passed you by,” she murmured. She breathed in, deeply and slow, then released a gentle rainbow of breath—imagination fanning colour into the air.

Binky copied, nose wrinkling, paws splaying. Tricerabot exhaled quietly, gears sigh-singing. The sprite’s frown lifted, just slightly. “Could the town learn to notice me?” it asked, voice quivering with watery hope. Willow nodded. “We’ll show them—one mindful breath is pure magic.”

Together they returned to town. At Willow’s gentle request, everyone paused—shopkeepers, tourists, even the postman. “Breathe with the sky,” she called. In—two—three—four; out—two—three—four. Rainbow streaks bloomed, seeping into buildings, river, and hills as colour flooded home, lively and bright as spilled ink.