The city shimmered like a dream.
Every bridge and balcony of Suramar was garlanded in blooms, petals drifting through the air in lazy spirals. Music spilled from the plazas - lutes, laughter, the ringing of bells - and the scent of sugared citrus mingled with spice and smoke.
Lytavis and Tyrande made their way down the hill from the overlook, following the current of festival-goers toward the canals below.
"I can smell the bakeries from here," Tyrande said, eyes bright. "They're making the honeycakes again - look at that queue!"
"You'll regret it halfway through your second one," Lytavis said, smiling despite herself.
"Then you'll help me finish it."
"I always do."
They wandered the stalls arm in arm - candied petals, painted masks, glass charms strung on silver thread. Tyrande stopped every few steps to marvel at something, while Lytavis examined the workmanship, tilting her head at the spell-thread woven into the glass.
Near the fountain square, a sudden cry cut through the laughter. A child - barely more than a toddler - had slipped on wet marble, striking her head on the edge of the basin. Her mother knelt beside her, panicked.
Before anyone else moved, Lytavis was there. She dropped to her knees, hands steady as she touched the child's brow. A faint shimmer of light - soft as a moonbeam - flowed beneath her fingers. The crying faltered, then stopped. The child blinked up at her, dazed but calm.
"She'll be all right," Lytavis murmured, wiping a trickle of blood from the girl's temple. "Keep her awake for a while, and let her rest when the fireworks start."
The mother stammered her thanks. Tyrande stood nearby, eyes shining with quiet admiration.
"Every festival," she said as they walked on. "Someone stumbles, and you're there before anyone else."
"I don't like seeing people hurt," Lytavis replied simply.
"Even strangers."
"Especially strangers. They don't expect kindness."
When they reached the canal, the air vibrated with excitement. Boats lined the water, each one draped in flowers. A herald called above the crowd:
"Last call for the Petal Boat race! Two to a skiff!"
Tyrande turned to Lytavis, already grinning. "We're doing it."
Lytavis arched a brow. "We're what?"
Five minutes later they were crouched in a garlanded skiff, bare feet braced against the wooden slats, water cool and glittering around them.
The signal sounded.
They paddled. Lytavis found the rhythm quickly, smooth and steady; Tyrande splashed more than she steered, laughing as the skiff rocked. They kept going anyway - determined, hair flying loose in the breeze.
From a balcony above, two figures leaned over the rail.
"The smaller one has control," said the dark-haired one, his voice edged with admiration and approval. "She reads the current before it moves."
"Her friend has spirit," said the other. "She keeps paddling even when the boat drifts sideways."
Illidan smirked faintly. "Reckless."
"Hopeful," Malfurion corrected.
Below, the girls reached the finish line second to last - but not defeated. Soaked, breathless, and radiant, they hauled the boat to shore amid cheers and applause from the crowd.
"That was terrible," Lytavis said between gasps, grinning.
"And yet we survived it," Tyrande answered, half-laughing. "I call that a victory."
They joined the others on the marble steps by the canal, where vendors handed out fruit pastries dusted with gold sugar. The girls split one between them, sticky-fingered and laughing as fireworks began to bloom above the rooftops.
Lanterns floated out across the water, their reflections shimmering like stars.
"Do you ever feel," Tyrande said softly, "like nights like this mean something?"
Lytavis leaned back, gaze following the trails of firelight across the sky. "Maybe they do," she murmured. "Maybe that's the point."
The fireworks flared again - violet and silver, mirrored in the rippling canals. And far above the crowd, two brothers still watched, unaware that the night had already begun to braid their futures together.