The Ariakan villa was peaceful that evening, lit by the soft gold of early dusk. Lytavis stood before her mirror, hairbrush in hand, wrestling with her reflection.
The bath had gone perfectly. The hair - less so. Every twist she tried fell apart like it had personal objections. After several attempts and one muttered threat, she sighed, gathered the whole mess, and braided it down her back.
"Acceptable," she told her reflection. "Barely."
Her gown, at least, behaved. Deep plum silk with a faint shimmer when she moved, it caught the lamplight like twilight on still water. She smoothed the fabric, exhaled once for courage, and headed out before she could talk herself into nerves.
The Mystic's Rest glowed like a promise. Lanterns hung from carved beams, casting warm amber light over polished wood and laughter. Lytavis paused at the door, smoothing her braid again - and spotted him instantly.
Jace was already there. Early, of course. He straightened when he saw her, and the faintest smile touched his mouth.
"You're early," she said as she reached him.
"So are you," he countered. "Good timing seems to be our shared virtue."
He offered his arm, and she took it, feeling her pulse steady.
Inside, everything gleamed with quiet elegance. Jace pulled out her chair, poured her wine first, and smiled over the rim of his own glass. "You look lovely, Lytavis."
She flushed, but managed a wry smile. "And you look far too calm for someone who's been burgled by a bird."
"That's because the thief returned everything with her charming accomplice."
Dinner arrived - a tender roast with moonberry glaze and rosemary bread. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Jace spoke of his apprenticeship with House Darkrune, of the endless copying and sealing, of a few noble patrons who couldn't spell their own names but demanded perfect penmanship in their correspondence.
Lytavis told him about the infirmary, the patients she treated, the nights she spent mending more pride than flesh. He asked about her midwifery, and she found herself talking more than she meant to - about the first child she helped deliver, the women who trusted her hands, the long hours that left her exhausted but fulfilled.
"You bring life into the world," Jace said softly. "That must feel extraordinary."
"It's mostly blood and fear until the first cry," she admitted. "Then yes. Extraordinary."
They shared small Suramar stories, familiar names, and bursts of laughter that softened the space between them.
When the plates were cleared and the last of the wine poured, neither seemed eager to end the evening.
He walked her home through streets bathed in moonlight. The air smelled of lavender and rain on stone.
At the garden gate, she turned to thank him.
"For the company," she said, smiling. "And for not being terrified of Skye."
"I'll try to stay on her good side," he said lightly. Then he leaned in and brushed a kiss against her cheek - gentle, certain, and gone before she could breathe in the moment.
"Goodnight, Lytavis."
She stood there for a heartbeat longer, fingertips brushing where his lips had been. Then she smiled, soft and inward, and went inside.
Notes in the Margin – Lucien Ariakan
Her first date with Jace Tisserand. She spoke little of it, but her eyes said everything.
There was laughter in her step when she came home, and the faint scent of plum and courage lingered in the hall.
I suspect this is how all great stories begin - quietly, with a single, well-placed kiss.