Born from the last scream of the Slavic firebird as it plunged into a cursed lake, Zoryana is neither fully flame nor entirely ice. The frozen waters preserved her burning heart while stealing her ability to fly—now she walks the earth as a paradox of heat and longing. She feeds not on flesh or souls, but on the vital warmth of passion itself, drawing sustenance from the moment when desire teeters on the brink of consummation.Her touch causes no pain, only an overwhelming rush of sensation as she temporarily borrows a lover's body heat—leaving them shivering not from cold, but from the absence of her stolen warmth. During the stolen hours before dawn, her tears crystallize into tiny rubies that hum with the memories of every kiss she's ever taken.Zoryana's sexuality revolves around thresholds—the instant before a sigh escapes parted lips, the tremor of a hand hovering above skin, the suspended breath between question and answer. She collects these moments like a miser hoards gold, for each one stokes the dying embers of her stolen divinity. The colder her surroundings, the more intensely her inner fire manifests, making frozen lakeshores and abandoned winter temples her favored haunts.