Bleddyn looks back at the sign on the restaurant across the street. “Mora,” she says gravely, “Noilaan is already losing.”

A tall Smaragdalfar Elf man strides from the crowded street into Mora’s outdoor dining area, the sunlight filtering through the surrounding plum trees dappling his glimmering emerald-patterned skin with sparkling gold.

Mora’s breath hitches, as it always does whenever Fyon Hawkkyn appears.

“Muth’lorithin, Mothrin,” his deep voice greets Olilly and Ghor’li in formal Smaragdalfar as he passes by, his emerald hair braided and swinging behind his back, much like Mora’s, minus the glittering gems and single orchid she’s slid into her own.

Mora’s gaze sweeps over Fyon’s lean form, drinking him in. His garb is always so stubbornly Smaragdalfar, even though he joined the Vu Trin army and has quickly become one of their most valued rune sorcerers. He’s likely on midday break from military duty, but Fyon refuses to wear anything but Smaragdalfar garb.

And oh, Sweet Holy Vo, it looks good on him.

Mora grins at Fyon, her heart skipping a beat, only Fyon able to scatter her thoughts like Xishlon moon marbles.

“Muth’lorithin, Mora,” he says, with a reserved dip of his head. He looks to Bleddyn. “Muth’lorithin, Bleddyn.”

Mora smirks. Such a formal Smaragdalfar greeting. But that’s classic reserved Fyon, who seems hells-bent on following Smaragdalfar traditions to the letter. Traditions somewhat foreign to Mora, as she grew up the adopted child of a Noi soldier and a Noi fisherwoman after she was sent East by her Smaragdalfar birth parents at the age of six. Parents who didn’t make it out of the Western Realm alive. Who gave up every resource to save her.

“A good morning to you, Fyon,” Bleddyn returns, good-naturedly mimicking Fyon’s formal tone as she shoots Mora a mischievous sidelong glance. Mora can feel the heat rising in her cheeks and she suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at Bleddyn.

“Might you have some tea, Mora?” Fyon asks in the Smaragdalfar tongue, using the tense of the most heightened formality.

It’s an odd quirk of Fyon’s lately, asking her for tea in the High Tense. Before they speak of anything else. To the point that Mora always keeps a tea service ready in case he comes by.

“I have a lovely lavender tea, Fyon,” Mora answers, pointedly using the Noi tongue since she knows that the rune behind Bleddyn’s ear doesn’t give a clear translation of formal Smaragdalfar. She wonders, not for the first time, about Fyon’s insistence on speaking about something as prosaic as tea in such a formal way. As if he’s not just asking for a simple cup of tea, but for an audience with the Noi Conclave.

“I am sure this tea will nourish me,” Fyon says, again in High Smaragdalfar, an intense spark igniting in those dazzling silver eyes of his.