"Oh, [i]sure[/i] when [i]she[/i] burns down her palace, it's fine and dandy and a cultural touchstone, but when [i]I[/i] knock over a brazier--"

She doesn't want to think about how many people are pouring out of the sky--about the dropships and the legions and the sheer [i]number[/i] of--

All on one planet! All of them crammed into one planet like clowns in a car!

She doesn't want to think about the future--about all of these people, drenched in their ways, dripping all over this, this, this precious [i]difference[/i] to everything else in the galaxy. Hope, that's the key. Hope in the people of this world, hope in the system they've built, hope in their resilience--
It's silly, right? This is a maze, this [i]isnt'[/i] the palace she burned, it's a fortress, it's glorious, and [i]still[/i] she has to remind herself that she can't rely on memory to guide her.

… It's beautiful. It is! Not just beautiful in the way of a pyromaniac hypnotized by a flame, but--those flowers! Could she recreate them? Would that be--is that wrong, to want that?

There's an army approaching this planet, escaping their own. There's a palace ablaze. And for just a second, the thought flits into her mind of a different beach, and a different impossible defense, and--

Trust. Trust and hope in the people of this planet. Trust in the unity they show, not of biomancy or coercion or inborn instinct, but of genuine *goodness* and empathy.

Nero is the key. 

She dives into the palace, but stops on the way to pat out a smoldering rose and pocket it for later.