Henry stood in the center of the throne room, chest still glowing with residual Lube of Clarity, his velvet cape billowing as if moved by the very winds of destiny (or possibly just one of the enchanted air vents leaking arousal magic). Around him, his trusted (and terribly hot) companions gathered, eyes wide with both awe and the unmistakable hunger of women who'd just watched a man dance battle a latex librarian to claim a sacred lube.
The room still shimmered with the aftershocks of truth. A chandelier shaped like a spread pair of legs gently spun overhead, casting sensual shadows across the polished floors made of sapphic marble and enchanted glass tiles that moaned when stepped on too hard. The Fortress of Endless Heat, Henry now realized, was less a palace and more an aggressively thirsty theme park built by erotica-obsessed architects with no budget constraints.
