The sun hadn't even shifted in the sky by the time Allen descended from the royal suite, each step down the palace staircase echoing like a drumbeat of new law. Behind him trailed the aftermath of revolution: three princesses limp with pleasure and leaking royalty, Elira crawling with renewed marks scrawled across her back—Cum Vessel. Breeder. Owned—and Fina and Rinni flanking him like crowned wolves in heat.
The throne was his. Everyone knew it. But Allen wasn't slowing down.
As he passed through the atrium, heads turned—maids froze mid-step, guards stiffened (some literally), and nobles still lingering from the Queen's earlier ruin gasped and shrank away. There was no doubt anymore. No rumors. No whispers. Just raw, wide-eyed truth: the palace belonged to him.
Allen didn't speak until he reached the central hall, where golden banners still fluttered with the old house sigil. Without looking, he raised his hand—and Fina set them ablaze.
