The morning air was still cool when Lytavis began her rounds. A thin mist lingered over the cobbled streets, softening the edges of Suramar's marble facades. She liked these early hours - the hush before the city stirred fully awake, the way light crept across the towers like a promise.
Her satchel was slung over one shoulder, filled with vials and wrapped herbs, a healer's quiet armory.
Her first stop was Silvara Rivershade's home in Evermoon Commons. The young mother-to-be greeted her at the door, one hand already pressed to the small curve of her belly.
"Everything aches," Silvara confessed with a sheepish laugh.
"That means everything's working," Lytavis said, smiling as she checked the woman's pulse and murmured a small spell to ease her back. "Rest. Let the aches speak softly."
From there, she crossed through the Evermoon Bazaar to Diani Mossrunner's home. Diani was a practical woman with five children already and very little patience for fuss.
"I'm not delicate," she grumbled as Lytavis examined her, "I just don't want to give birth in the kitchen again."
"Then perhaps stop baking halfway through your contractions," Lytavis teased.
By the time she reached Illaria Silverglade's house, the mist had burned away and the sun had begun to warm the stones.
The new mother was sitting by the window, her infant daughter tucked against her shoulder. The baby gurgled softly, her hair already showing faint streaks of silver.
"She's thriving," Lytavis said after a quick examination. "And you look well."
Illaria smiled, a little weary but proud. "I'm better now. Jace came by after you left - said he was a friend of yours. He set up some sort of rune pattern around the house. It keeps Caladon away."
Lytavis's brows lifted. "He did?"
"Mmh. He tried to come back three nights ago. The wards gave him a jolt every time he touched the wall." Illaria chuckled faintly. "He swore loud enough to wake the moon."
Lytavis's lips curved. "I didn't know Jace had done that. Thank you for telling me."
"He's a good man," Illaria said.
"Yes," Lytavis murmured, straightening her satchel. "He is."
As she stepped back into the sunlight, Lytavis made a quiet mental note:
Write to Jace Tisserand.
To thank him for protecting Illaria.
To tell him his wards had worked.
It was such a simple thing, but kindness rarely needed to be grand to matter.
She adjusted her satchel and walked on, the city humming softly around her - Temple bells chiming in the distance, gulls circling the canal, the faint, familiar rhythm of life carrying on.
Somewhere far away, a letter was already beginning to form in her mind, steady and warm as morning light.
By the time she returned home, the Ariakan villa was steeped in the golden hush of late afternoon. Zoya was in the garden trimming herbs, and the soft sound of her father's quill scratching on parchment drifted faintly from his study.
Lytavis set her satchel on her desk and unrolled her notes. The quill moved easily - patient, neat, methodical. Each entry held steady purpose:
Silvara Rivershade – 30 weeks, mild swelling, improved appetite.
Diani Mossrunner – 18 weeks, restless.
Illaria Silverglade – one week postpartum, healing well. Infant thriving. Father absent. Protective wards effective.
She paused there, the nib of her quill hovering above the parchment. Then she drew out a fresh sheet and began a new letter, her handwriting softer now, looping and deliberate.
To Jace Tisserand, apprentice of House Darkrune
Zin-Azshari
My dear friend,
I learned today that you visited Illaria Silverglade and set protective wards upon her home.
They worked. Caladon Nightbender tried to return, and your runes kept him from crossing the threshold. She and the child are safe.
You didn't need to do that, but you did - and I thank you for it.
The city feels quieter since you left, though I imagine Zin-Azshari is anything but. I hope you are well, and that your studies bring you joy as well as challenge. The Well must be extraordinary. I'd very much like to hear about it when you return.
Always,
Lytavis
Ariakan Estate
Suramar
She sanded the ink, folded the letter, and sealed it with wax pressed by her family's bee-and-quill crest. When she was done, she sat back, fingertips resting lightly on the envelope.
It had been nine days since he'd gone. He would be there by now, somewhere near the shimmering heart of the empire, studying magic older than any song.
She smiled faintly, set the letter aside for morning post, and leaned back in her chair. The day's work was done.
Outside, the first stars began to prick through the deepening blue, and from the garden came the soft sound of her mother humming—a melody of quiet contentment, steady as breath.
Notes in the Margin – Lucien Ariakan
She has always been kind. That part of her was written before she could walk - the way she would bandage wounded birds, whispering apologies as if words alone could mend them.
But discipline - that is new. Or rather, it has found its form. I see it now in the way she records her visits: neat, precise, unwavering. She does not rush her words. She writes as if the world depends on her getting it right - and perhaps, in her small ways, it does.
Empathy guided her once. Now discipline steadies it, keeps her heart from spilling over into every wound she tends. That balance will save her someday, though she cannot know it yet.
I hear her quill scratching from the next room as I write this, the steady rhythm of her devotion to her work.
She has become her own kind of prayer.