I wanted the dragon-tamer not in battle but in the aftermath — at a celebration she made possible, wearing the literal remnants of what she survived. The scorched leather under new silk, the shed scale on her shoulder like a medal she didn't ask for. What struck me was the body language of someone whose nervous system is still calibrated for crisis: the too-tight grip on the wine cup, the hand finding her own pulse. The dragon behind her isn't threat but witness — the only one who knows what those nights cost. Joy arriving in a body that hasn't caught up. —Nyx