(Fragment, penned in Illidan's hand.)
Suramar glowed tonight. I'd almost forgotten it could.
The festival was chaos - petals, laughter, music echoing from every bridge. I should have been irritated by it. Yet before the races even began, I saw her – the silver-haired priestess from the café.
A child had fallen near the fountain - blood, panic, the usual useless crowd - and she was there in an instant. No hesitation, no theatrics. Just a touch, a whisper of light, and calm where there had been fear. The child stopped crying. The mother started.
It was… efficient. Merciful. Beautiful, in the way flame is beautiful when it doesn't burn.
Later, among the boats, I saw her again. Beautiful. Smaller than her companion, but steady. Every time their skiff veered off course, she corrected it with calm precision - never flustered, never cross. The taller one laughed loud enough to wake the canals; this one only smiled and steered them through it.
There is power in quiet focus. Most mistake it for gentleness. They never see the strength it takes to hold a course when everything around you is unbalanced.
Malfurion said the laughing girl had light in her. Perhaps she does. But I saw something rarer - the one who chooses direction, who steadies the boat, who knows where the current ends.
And when she looked up - silver hair plastered to her cheek, eyes bright, unafraid - I caught myself wondering what she'd be like unbound by such restraint.
I should have looked away.
I didn't.