Dawn crept through the shutters, pale and quiet. The house smelled of lavender and grief. Lytavis woke first. Her body ached, but habit carried her to the hearth.
She rekindled the coals, set the kettle on, and stirred oats into a pot of water. Toast followed, the crusts browning in slow rhythm. When the porridge thickened, she added honey and a pinch of salt—small mercies against a bitter morning.
The children stirred one by one, blinking sleep from swollen eyes. She seated them at the table, spooning out porridge, pressing warm toast into small hands.
"Eat, little ones. Your mother needs you strong today."
When they were settled, she wiped her hands on her apron and crossed to the bedchamber door. Her knock was soft.
Gareth opened it. His eyes were rimmed dark; Diani's tear-stained face was turned toward the wall.
"Good morning," Lytavis said gently. "Can I bring you anything? Food, tea… or would you like one of the priestesses to come?"
Gareth hesitated, voice rough. "Tea would be kind. And—yes. Diani… she'd like Sister Perla."
"I'll fetch her," Lytavis promised. "I'll bring the tea first, get the children settled, then send Sister Perla to you. Shall I take the little one with me, or would you prefer to keep him a while longer?"
He swallowed. "Take him. His name is Oswin."
Lytavis bowed her head. "A beautiful name."
She brewed the tea—moonmint with honey—and carried it in. She didn't look at Diani's face, only at the hands folded over the blanket. Setting the tray beside them, she whispered, "He's ready when you are."
She wrapped Oswin in a clean towel, careful not to cover his face, and stepped out to give them a final moment of privacy. When she returned, Gareth nodded once. Lytavis lifted the small bundle, holding him as she would any newborn—one arm curved under, one hand resting lightly on his chest.
Outside, the morning light was too bright. She walked quickly, the road blurring through tears that refused to stop. By the time she reached the Temple steps, she could hardly see.
Sister Tyratha met her there, saw the bundle, and said nothing. She only took Oswin from her arms, laid him gently on one of the cots, and drew Lytavis into a long, steady embrace.
When Lytavis could finally speak, she asked in a whisper, "Please send Sister Perla to the Mossrunner home."
Tyratha nodded, her eyes bright. "I will. And I'll see to the child myself. Go home, dear one. Rest."
But Lytavis shook her head faintly. "Not yet. I have to make it official."
Together they filled out the death record—Lytavis's first. Her hand shook as she wrote Oswin Mossrunner. The ink blotched at the end of the name.
When she left, the sun was full above the spires. Suramar glimmered as if nothing had changed.
Lytavis walked home slowly, the satchel heavy at her side, her heart heavier still. The streets were beginning to wake—vendors setting out baskets of fruit, a few apprentices sweeping the steps of their shops. She moved through it like a ghost.
She didn't notice the two young men seated outside the café—a druid apprentice and his twin, an apprentice of the arcane—until a faint prickle brushed the back of her neck. A whisper of awareness. She glanced over, half expecting to see no one.
Illidan looked up just as her eyes found him. For a heartbeat, the noise of the city dimmed. He didn't smile, only inclined his head slightly, as one might in quiet respect. Lytavis hesitated, uncertain why the gesture steadied her, then turned away and continued on.
Malfurion watched her go. "That's the healer from the festival—the one who helped that child who fell near the fountain."
Illidan's gaze lingered on her retreating figure. "I remember," he said softly. "She looked like she carried sunlight that day."
"She doesn't now," Malfurion murmured.
"No," Illidan agreed. "Today she carries the shadow that follows it."
Malfurion frowned. "You don't even know her."
Illidan's voice was quiet, almost certain. "Not yet."