Before Aurora, three broken monarchs stood in their shame. Jenny, the succubus-queen, her once-mature curves stripped by magic into a too-young frame, all sharp edges and trembling will.
Galiath, the hive mind, now twitching inside the borrowed flesh of a rabbit-eared butler, his survival itself a humiliation.
And the lion-king, ever-proud, his crimson horned mane dulled with dried blood, his chest scarred, yet his gaze still defiant, the echo of old glory.
Jenny's lips trembled, but her chin did not bow. She clenched her fists so tightly her nails cut crescents into her palms.
Her voice rang through the ruin, shrill but unyielding, every word straining against the ruin around them:
"Even if Atlas razes my kingdom, even if he grinds my bones to dust—I will not bend the knee. My back may break, my flesh may burn, but my knees will stay straight. Always."
Her words fell like sparks on wet stone, furious, brittle. Her young body quaked, every nerve aflame, yet she stood.
