By midafternoon, the Temple had settled into its drowsy rhythm—candles guttering low, voices drifting through the open arches in half-whispered prayer. Lytavis was rolling bandages when Tyrande appeared in the doorway, eyes bright with purpose and absolutely no patience.
"I need a chocolate scone," she announced.
Lytavis didn't look up. "You need discipline."
"I'll take both," Tyrande said cheerfully, seizing her friend's hand. "Come on—Enchanted Crumb has the good ones. The kind with the sugar crust that flakes off in delicious little bits."
Lytavis sighed but allowed herself to be led. "You're incorrigible."
"I'm hungry. There's a difference."
The café was still busy, sunlight glinting on glass teapots and the faint tinkle of bells in the breeze. They took a small table by the ivy-draped railing, ordered tea and—after a meaningful look from Tyrande—chocolate scones.
Skye arrived soon after, alighting on the back of Lytavis's chair like she owned it. She gave one imperious croak, shuffled her wings, and settled in to supervise.
Tyrande poured tea with suspicious serenity. Lytavis narrowed her eyes. "You're up to something."
"Always." Tyrande's smile curved slowly. "Don't look now—actually, do look now—but there are two rather extraordinary young men sitting at the corner table."
Lytavis reached for her spoon. "And this concerns me because…?"
"Because," Tyrande said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "one of them is perfect for you."
Lytavis arched a brow. "Perfect men don't exist, Tyrande."
"I'm serious! Look—no, pretend you're admiring the ivy."
"I am admiring the ivy."
"Do it with your head turned slightly to the left."
Lytavis sighed and, if only to end the nonsense, turned her head just as the waitress arrived with their tray. Plates, scones, silver tongs—the perfect cover.
At the far end of the patio, two young men sat in easy conversation: one dark-haired, expression keen and self-contained; the other fairer, green hair, his gaze elsewhere. The darker one looked up precisely as Lytavis's eyes reached him.
For a heartbeat, the noise around her faded—the clink of porcelain, the flutter of wings, even Tyrande's quiet gasp. He didn't smile, not exactly, but something in his golden gaze lingered like recognition. Then the waitress set down their plates, and the moment slipped back into the hum of the afternoon.
Tyrande exhaled. "Well? Thoughts?"
Lytavis focused on her tea. "He's beautiful."
"I knew you'd—wait, what?"
"I said he's beautiful," Lytavis repeated, as if remarking on the weather. "But he'd never look twice at me."
Tyrande blinked. "And why not?"
"Because he's clearly an arcane apprentice," Lytavis said matter-of-factly. "And I'm a healer and a midwife. The two rarely mix." She broke her scone in half, dusting crumbs from her fingertips. "Besides, I'm plain, practical, and usually smell like poultices—and sometimes sick."
Tyrande sipped her tea, unimpressed. "You're not plain. You're Lytavis. And if you think that man's eyes didn't follow you just now, you need more rest than I thought."
Lytavis snorted softly. "They didn't. He was probably looking past me."
"At what, exactly?" Tyrande teased. "The wall of ivy?"
Lytavis ignored her, buttering her scone with calm precision.
Tyrande watched her for a moment, then added, "It worked for your parents, didn't it? An arcane scholar and a healer?"
Lytavis stilled, her knife pausing mid-spread. "Yes," she said quietly. "But they're exceptional."
"So are you."
Lytavis smiled faintly, not believing her. "You're relentless."
"That's faith, not relentlessness." Tyrande grinned. "And possibly sugar."
Across the patio, Illidan leaned slightly toward his brother. "She looked at me."
Malfurion didn't glance up from his tea. "Coincidence."
"Maybe." Illidan's mouth curved, slow and certain. "But I'll take it."