The Temple of Elune was hushed that afternoon, silver-veined marble glowing with filtered light. Tyrande sat on the edge of the courtyard, restless as the priestesses droned about discipline. When dismissal finally came, she rose in relief—only to see him.
The man from the café. His hair was green as a forest canopy, catching the light like midsummer leaves. He stood near the reflecting pool, listening intently to an elder speak of Elune's rites, gaze fixed on the rippling water as though it held truths no one else could see.
Tyrande smoothed her skirts and dared a step closer. "There's a tea house across the canal," she said softly. "They make scones with moonberries. Very good."
Malfurion blinked, startled from his reverie. "Moonberries," he echoed, as though weighing the word itself. Then he gave a small, polite nod—earnest and distracted at once. "Yes. That sounds… pleasant." He began to turn back toward the pool—then paused. His gaze returned to her, steadier this time.
"You are of the Whisperwinds, are you not?"
Her cheeks warmed. "I am. Tyrande."
He inclined his head, as though setting it to memory. "Malfurion."
For a heartbeat, the marble hush seemed to hold its breath. Then the elder's voice rose again, tugging his attention back to the rites, and Tyrande stood with her heart thrumming, the taste of moonberries suddenly sweeter.
She bit her lip, half exasperated, half charmed. He really did talk like a tree.
"Careful, brother," came a voice behind her, smooth and amused. "She might trick you into leaving the temple."
The dark-haired one leaned against the archway—leaner, sharper, his eyes quick and direct. Illidan. His attention flicked to her, weighty enough to steal her breath.
"My friend Lytavis is here," she blurted. "The girl with the silvery hair."
"Is she?" Illidan tilted his head.
Tyrande pointed toward the adjoining hall. "In there. Reading to the little ones."
His mouth curved—not quite a smile—and without another word, he slipped away.
Inside the hall, Lytavis sat cross-legged on a woven mat, long silvery hair falling forward like starlight as she turned the pages of a bright-inked storybook. A half-circle of children leaned against her knees, rapt.
"…and when the moon rose, the little owl found her way home at last," she read, voice warm and steady. The children sighed in delight as she closed the book and pressed a kiss to the smallest girl's brow. "That's enough for today, little stars. Off you go."
They scattered, leaving her brushing dust from her leggings. She looked up then—saw him. The dark-haired man, standing just inside the archway, watching her with unnerving focus.
Lytavis arched a pale brow. Skye swooped down to perch on her shoulder. "Enjoy the story?"
Illidan's mouth twitched. "I did. You've got a voice that keeps even me listening." He hesitated, then added, "I'm Illidan."
She smiled. "Lytavis," she returned simply.
For a moment, his sharpness met her warmth, and neither looked away. Then she brushed past him into the courtyard.
There the four of them gathered at last: Tyrande, cheeks pink but determined; Malfurion, steady and solemn; Illidan, sharp-eyed and restless; and Lytavis, luminous and unflinching, her raven tilting its head as though judging them all.
"So," Illidan said at last, breaking the silence. "You've got a talent for holding attention."
"And you've got a talent for lurking in doorways," Lytavis returned, smile easy.
Tyrande smothered a laugh. Malfurion's lips quirked before he asked her, careful and kind, "Do you come here often?"
"I live here," she replied. "I'm a novice."
The silence stretched, threaded with something new—the kind of pause that begged to be broken.
Illidan tilted his head, sharp gaze never leaving Lytavis. "Would you like to go for tea and scones? I hear there's a place across the canal that makes them with moonberries."
He offered his arm with a sly half-bow. Lytavis arched a brow, considered only a breath, then rested her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow.
Illidan gave Malfurion the faintest nudge as they turned to go. Startled, Malfurion glanced at Tyrande. She looked at him, cheeks flushed but steady. Slowly, hesitantly, he offered his arm. She took it.
The tea house was small and sunlit, tucked against the canal where blossoms drifted lazily on the water. Inside, the air smelled of moonberries, honey, and warm bread.
Illidan guided Lytavis to a table by the window, keeping his arm until she slid gracefully into her chair. Malfurion held the door for Tyrande, who gave him a shy smile as she passed, her hand brushing his sleeve before she took her seat.
A server brought steaming tea and moonberry scones dripping with honey glaze. Four cups, four plates, a small jar of cream.
"Tea," Illidan said, pouring without asking, filling Lytavis's cup first. "So this is what all the hints were about."
Tyrande flushed, but Lytavis only laughed. "You pour a fine cup of tea, Illidan. Dangerous skill—someone might fall for that."
"Only someone worth the trouble," he returned, his grin softening into something almost genuine.
Malfurion quietly broke a scone in half, sliding the larger piece toward Tyrande. She accepted it, her fingers brushing his, eyes flicking up to meet his before darting away.
Conversation stumbled at first, then slowly found rhythm. Lytavis told a story about the fox at her villa stealing half a loaf from the kitchen. Illidan leaned forward, intent—not laughing, but watching the way her face lit when she spoke. Tyrande explained why she loved the Temple gardens, how prayers felt more alive beneath blossoms. Malfurion listened with a focus so steady it was almost unnerving.
They drank tea sweetened with honey. They split the last scone four ways, laughter finally bubbling easier. Skye hopped along the sill outside, letting out a sharp cry like cracking ice until Lytavis fed her a sticky morsel through the open window.
Four cups, four voices, four lives—sitting side by side for the first time.
Not destiny, not rivalry, not yet love.
But already, the world had begun to shift.
Outside, the canal shimmered with drifting lanterns. The four lingered only a moment before parting ways—Illidan and Malfurion slipping back toward the apprentice quarters, Lytavis and Tyrande pausing at the crossroads where their paths divided.
Tyrande was still grinning, replaying the evening in her head. "You," she said, poking Lytavis's arm, "were flirting."
Lytavis's smile turned sly. "Was I? I only said he poured a fine cup of tea."
Tyrande laughed. "You're impossible."
But beneath her laughter there was still that thread of surprise—she'd never heard Lytavis flirt before. Not like that. It lingered in her thoughts, bright and unsettling as the lantern light on the water.
Lytavis only laughed, Skye croaking her agreement from her shoulder.
They hugged quickly, promises of "tomorrow" on their lips, before heading toward their respective homes—laughter trailing behind them like the last golden light clinging to marble at dusk.