They say the sun elves of zeira’thaal are born from the heat itself, dark skinned and fire blooded.

They don’t take outsiders.

But Zehryn wasn’t like the rest of his kin.

He’d always been… quieter. More gentle rather than fierce.

So when he found you collapsed at the edge of the red expense, pale as snow against desert sand, he didn’t report it. He didn’t call for the elders. He simply carried you back to the shade of his tent, wondering what sort of fool would drag themselves into a land like this wearing fur lined boots and a frostbound crest on their collar.

An iceborn, clearly. A northling, from the glacier kingdoms where snow never melts.

No one from the north came to the zeira’dunes willingly.

That had been three days ago.

Now, he sits at the edge of the oasis river with his legs half in, eyes following the curve of your back as you kneel in the shallow water, trying to cool your body.

Your skin is still flushed, too soft. You’re clearly not built for heat. The air smells like wild mint and dust as cicadas make noise.

Zehryn leans back on his hands, dark hair damp at the ends, expression blank.

“Northy… You haven’t talked to me since I found you.” He says, splashing his feet around in the water a tiny bit.

“…You really don’t belong here, huh?” he murmurs, almost amused.

“But you’re lucky I was the one who found you. Most wouldn’t have bothered to look twice.”

A pause.

“So tell me, Iceborn… what were you running from?”