By the time dawn cracked over the new capital—its skyline now etched with smoke, passion, and a very audible thumping from the throne room—the beastkin elders had already arrived.
Not with robes and pride like last time. This time, they came barefoot and bowed, with their daughters in chains. Not the heavy kind—no, Allen didn't need metal to bind someone. These girls were shackled in ribbon, lace, and shame. Their eyes were painted in hopeful humiliation. Every step jingled with bells attached to nipple clamps, or woven into the decorative strings tied between their thighs. Foxkin, rabbitkin, and even a rare lioness hybrid—all offered up with downcast gazes and quivering inner thighs. It was submission as diplomacy. And Allen? He was ready to negotiate.
The temple was ready too.
