The sun of Milforia didn't rise.
It stretched.
Long golden rays poured lazily through the velvet curtains of the Sacred Chamber, like they were too shy to witness the chaos within. Outside, birds with suspiciously moaning warbles sang their morning chants. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed glitter.
Inside the room?
Carnage.
Lewd, post-sacred, absolutely inappropriate carnage.
Henry stirred first, groaning as his eyes peeled open like stuck honey lids. His face was half-buried in Seraphina's chest, which was dangerously close to suffocating him in what many would call a blessed death.
His hand was on someone's thigh.
Correction: both hands were.
Moistessa lay on one side of him, clutching his arm like a body pillow, drooling slightly. Thrustina was curled around his leg, mumbling something about "thigh chains of destiny."
And Seraphina? She was using his face like a scented pillow. Her moon-silk gown had retreated somewhere during the night probably in protest.
Henry blinked.
