(journal fragment, penned in Illidan's hand)
It's the third time I've seen her.
The first, she was bent over a child in the square—hands steady, voice low, restoring order with nothing more than calm. The second, she carried a small bundle to the Temple steps. I remember the way the air shifted when she passed; the world held its breath until she was gone.
And today, at a café I did not mean to linger in, she looked at me.
Malfurion says it was coincidence. He believes in the simplicity of things—that people cross paths by chance, that the wind blows where it will. Perhaps he's right. But the Weave hums differently when she is near—as if the air itself remembers the pattern of her movements.
She sat with another priestess—the one who talks too loudly about faith and pastry. They laughed. It should have been an ordinary sound, but there's something in the way her laughter begins—careful, as if she still expects the world to ask her to be quiet.
When she turned her head, I thought I imagined it—that flicker of awareness, the instant before recognition takes shape. She looked, and the noise of the café fell away. A single heartbeat of stillness. Then it was gone.
Malfurion tells me I read too much into moments. Perhaps. But the Weave does not hum without reason, and the light does not bend the same way twice for nothing.
He says she's only a healer. I say only is a word for those who've never seen the world mended by another's hands.
There is strength in her stillness—a kind I don't yet understand.
But I will.