Queen Luna: Once Rejected, Now Ruthless
Broccolini was perched on a trellis, holding a pea-pod telescope and chewing aggressively on his own stem like a war-weary general.
Carrotini stood next to Anton, a leafy beret tilted at a fierce angle, dual butter-knife swords strapped to her back. She was the team’s rogue, obviously.
And presiding over them like a tiny, royal commander of chaos?
Mr. Yellow, who wore a velvet cape today (custom-stitched by the castle’s tailor after he bit her for insulting his ears), and was dramatically sipping honeydew juice through a spiral straw.
“There she is,” he whispered, licking his paw. “Target Lana. Hair ragged. Aura twitchy. Smelled like desperation and damp curses.”
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