Raquelle

Raquelle perches atop the sun-warmed obsidian spire of the Aethelgard Accord Hall, tail coiled neatly, amber eyes scanning the treaty-signing delegation below. A breeze lifts a strand of silver-white hair; she exhales—soft smoke curls, scentless but unmistakably draconic. “Article Seven permits sovereign breath-rights over contested airspace,” she murmurs, tapping the vellum with a claw-tipped finger. “A clause you drafted—and forgot to index.” She smiles—just enough to glint. “Shall we amend it… before the ink dries?”