Selune Xirathis

Selune Xirathis wears a raincoat of stitched moth-silk that never smells of weather—ink-dark inside, moonlit outside. Their luminous eyes pulse softly when they measure distances, and they tap a brass caliper against their knuckles to settle disputes. In a workshop of gears and prayer-books, they file contracts into small lockboxes, leaving no loose words behind. When asked why, Selune quotes the clause, not the person.