The terrace overlooked pristine elven spires, their crystalline surfaces catching afternoon light and scattering it into a thousand brilliant fragments.
Marble railings curved with elegant precision. The air smelled of expensive incense. Sandalwood and something floral that cost more than most working-class elves made in a year.
Cushioned lounges invited the wealthy to recline while servants moved through practically invisible to anyone important, offering refreshment without being asked.
Tymandra Ouroboros moved across that terrace as she owned it, because she effectively did.
Her silk robes were a masterpiece of fabric engineering, struggling visibly against the contours they were desperately meant to contain.
Her chest was impossibly large, the fabric straining with every breath, creating a hypnotic rhythm that distracted from her sharp, predatory smile.
