(Meditative fragment, preserved in Malfurion's early writings.)
The Temple courtyard was hushed, marble veined with silver, light falling as though through leaves.
I listened to the elder's words, but it was her voice I carried away.
Tyrande Whisperwind. She spoke of scones and honey as prayer, and I nodded before I knew why.
Her presence was like water in still roots—quiet, yet sustaining.
Later, at the tea house, she tried to explain why blossoms make prayers stronger.
Her words were unpracticed, halting, yet I heard truth in them.
She feels the world differently than others.
She carries reverence even into laughter.
I broke a scone and slid the larger piece toward her.
A small thing—but I wished her to have it.
She met my eyes for only a breath, and in that glance was more than honey, more than blossoms.
I do not know what she will become.
But I know this: she is not a petal drifting on water.
She is the root that holds them in place.