In a marble room, gigantic and fully brightened with chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, and there, in the room, stood a golden throne. Its base, fashioned in the likeness of butterfly wings, stood as a testament to opulence and grandeur.

A young buxom woman sat on the throne, a golden crown on her head; she dressed in a long, straight black gown that hugged her curves. Her hair cascaded in waves, framing her face like a jeweled ornament, and her ears were like a rabbit wearing a dangly earring; her long eyelashes stretched seductively while her emerald eyes looked sharp and witty.

Beside her stood two ladies in black double-breasted jackets, black breeches, and boots. Their faces were devoid of any emotion as they stood like a status.

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Before her were hundreds of voluptuous ladies in red, short gowns barely covering their thighs; Each bore the signature black hair and green-eyed gaze of their ruler. All stood in two rows, creating a wide pathway covered in a red rug.

Above them all, a painful groan pierced through the air; it was Dorothy hanged up to the ceiling, her body dangly, and she moaned in pain as the manacle chafed her skin.

With a sour look, everyone in the room looked up at Dorothy, whispering here and there.

Queen Iris cocked her head as she looked up at Dorothy, her lips curling into a sly smile as Dorothy looked down at her with her sweaty, pale face.