Jiggle. Strut. Unlock

The sun in Gushgard didn't rise. It woke up, stretched like a scandalous courtesan, and spilled golden light over the city like honey over a warm thigh. It was a new day—and Henry's cheeks were already tense.

In the mirror of the dressing chamber, Henry stood bare-chested, towel secured at his hips, breathing in deep, slow counts. Around him floated enchanted puffballs that dabbed his skin with confidence oil and whispered motivational thirst-quotes like:

> "Real kings don't chase. They strut, and everything follows."

> "Your booty is the key."

> "Left cheek... destiny. Right cheek... prophecy."

He flexed slightly. The towel applauded.

Across the chamber, Seraphina lounged on a velvet chaise, lazily twirling a strand of hair. Her towel was still barely hanging on. In fact, Henry was starting to suspect the towel was a sentient creature, clinging for dear life.