The Temple infirmary was calm in the afternoon light. The scent of herbal poultices clung to the air—golden sansam, willowbark, and something faintly bitter beneath. Lytavis was cleaning her instruments, movements slow and methodical, when the door opened.
A girl stood there—young, breathless, eyes rimmed red. Lytavis knew her face but couldn't place it.
"Sister Perla," the girl managed, "my mother says there's something wrong with the baby. It's… it's coming too soon."
Perla turned sharply, already reaching for the midwife's satchel. "Lytavis," she said, her voice steady but urgent, "go. I'll stay here and tend to the patients. And…" her tone softened, "…say a prayer."
Lytavis took the satchel without hesitation. "Of course."
The girl—Eleanna, yes, that was her name—led her down the marble steps, across the glowing streets of Suramar, through winding alleys where last week's festival petals still lingered in the gutters. They spoke little. Eleanna's pace quickened as they neared the outskirts, where the houses grew quieter and the light dimmed to gold.
When they reached the Mossrunner cottage, the air already felt wrong—too still, too quiet.
Lytavis crossed the threshold and knew.
Diani lay pale against her linens, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused.
"Eleanna, take the children to the park. I'll stay with your mother."
Eleanna nodded, trembling, and gathered her younger siblings.
Lytavis reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from the girl's eyes. "You did well," she said softly—steady, certain, the way only Lytavis could be.
The door shut softly behind them.
The child had come too soon—too small, too silent. She moved carefully, her breath steadying as she gathered clean cloths from her satchel. She wrapped the little form in a soft shawl from the foot of the bed, one that smelled faintly of lavender and hearth smoke, and laid it gently aside.
Then she turned to Diani. The woman's nightdress was soaked through, her skin slick with sweat and blood. Lytavis worked without haste, murmuring low comforts as she bathed her with warm water, changed the linens beneath her, and dressed her in a fresh gown. She packed soft cloths against the bleeding, covered her with a wool blanket, and brushed the damp hair from her brow.
When Diani stirred, Lytavis uncorked a small vial and let a few drops of a pale pink healing draught fall into the cup. She swirled it once, watching the water catch the light before lifting Diani's head to offer a few sips, steadying the cup in trembling hands.
"Rest now," she whispered. "You've done all you can."
The woman's lashes fluttered; exhaustion and grief pulled her under again. Only then did Lytavis let herself exhale.
There was nothing else to do for Diani, but there was more she could do to help.
She cleaned the basin. Folded the soiled linens. Washed the floor. The little things—things that restored a measure of dignity to loss. When she was finished, she sat by the bedside, eyes fixed on the stillness between heartbeats.
The door creaked open as the light outside faded to dusk. Gareth Mossrunner stepped in, his face drawn and weary from a long day's work. One look at Lytavis, and the truth settled in his eyes.
"She's sleeping," Lytavis said softly.
He nodded once, as if that single motion cost him all his strength. "Can I…?"
"Of course."
Lytavis left them to their grief and shut the door behind her. His quiet broke on the other side.
She busied herself with what she could—making soup, slicing bread, setting out cups for the children. When they returned, she smiled for them, though her voice felt far away.
"Eat, little ones. Your parents are resting."
They obeyed. Children are wise in the ways of sorrow.
While they ate, she wrote two notes—one for her parents at the Ariakan villa, explaining that she would stay the night, and another for Sister Perla and Crysta Morningstar, detailing what had happened. She gave them to Eleanna, pressing her hand gently.
"Take these to the Temple, love. They'll send word to my family. You've done so well today."
Eleanna left, small shoulders squared against the dusk.
Lytavis settled the children into bed, one by one, humming a lullaby her mother had sung when she was small. When the last whisper faded and their breathing steadied, she sat by the hearth. Eleanna returned with a small bundle—bread, cheese, a jar of jam from the Temple kitchens. The gesture nearly undid her.
She ate what she could, then folded herself near the fire, watching the embers pulse faintly in the dark.
The house had fallen silent again—except for the quiet rhythm of sleeping breaths, and the soft sigh of the wind against the shutters.
When she finally drifted into sleep, her hand still rested on the satchel at her side—ready, always ready—though no one would call for her tonight.