The Temple was hushed that afternoon. Tyrande sat cross-legged beneath the latticed windows, scrolls unfurled around her like a halo of parchment, lips moving as she memorized a passage.
Across the courtyard, in the cool shadows of the infirmary, Lytavis worked quietly—palms glowing as she coaxed a fever from an elder's body. Her hands were steady, her voice low and soothing, and the air smelled faintly of mint and eucalyptus poultices.
When the last patient was resting comfortably, Lytavis stepped into the hall, tugging loose the ribbon that had kept her sleeves out of the way. That was when Tyrande appeared, breathless, a spark in her eyes that Lytavis knew all too well. Mischief always came dressed in that look.
"I overheard something," Tyrande began, glancing over her shoulder to make sure none of the elder sisters were within earshot. "In the gardens. Two priestesses were whispering about a masquerade at Lord Starwhisper's manor tonight."
Lytavis tilted her head, intrigued. "A masquerade? For the Magisters?"
Tyrande grinned, teeth flashing. "Exactly. And I thought of those gowns—the ones we used to play dress-up in when we were little. Still tucked away in your attic?"
Lytavis tried for solemnity, but her eyes betrayed her with a twinkle. "Yes. Cedar chests and moth-wards. I know exactly where they are."
Tyrande leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then tonight, we're not temple students. We're masked ladies of Suramar—invited or not."
For a moment they only looked at each other: one steady, one wild, both caught in the pull of a dare too delicious to refuse.
The Ariakan attic smelled of cedar and moth-wards, but its trunks were treasures. Lytavis pried one open and drew out silks that shimmered even in the dim candlelight. She held up the first with reverent fingers—ice-blue, silver swirls stitched across the bodice like frost caught in moonlight. Off the shoulder. Scandalously daring.
"For you," Tyrande teased, though there was awe in her voice.
The second gown was deep burgundy, golden stars embroidered across the bodice so they seemed to glimmer when the fabric shifted. Tyrande pressed it to herself and laughed, twirling despite the narrow space. "Perfect."
Masks waited in velvet pouches—one traced with silver filigree, the other dusted in gold. They tucked the finery into satchels and slipped out into the night.
They dressed in the woods behind Lord Starwhisper's manor, the strains of music floating faintly on the air. Tyrande laced herself into the burgundy gown, golden stars gleaming like captured constellations. Lytavis drew the ice-blue silk over her shoulders and shivered—not from cold, but from the thrill of it. For a heartbeat they stood together, masked and radiant. No longer temple girls, but something other—mysterious, grown, dangerous.
The ballroom was a blaze of chandeliers, enchantments scattering light across gilded masks. Music thrummed through polished floors; couples spun in glittering arcs; everywhere was the hum of conversation—political, romantic, scandalous.
Tyrande barely had time to breathe before she was swept into a dance, her bold smile and embroidered stars impossible to resist. She laughed, flirted, and drank in the attention as though she had been born to it.
Lytavis lingered at the edge, heart quickened, silver-threaded gown catching light like frost. She listened—catching whispers of Magisters debating theories, ladies muttering about rivals' gowns, men murmuring wagers over alliances. She had almost convinced herself that eavesdropping was safer than dancing when a tall figure in midnight blue appeared before her, bowing low. His mask was traced with constellations, a map of the heavens wrought in silver.
"May I?"
His voice was smooth, measured, carrying the weight of command used to being obeyed.
Lytavis's breath caught, but her lessons held. She curtsied, placed her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
They danced once, twice, thrice. His steps were flawless, his presence steady—guiding her but never overwhelming. Her dance instructor would have wept to see it. Each turn of the music drew her deeper: into the rhythm, the starlit gleam of his mask, the sense that the world was vast and she had only begun to touch it.
By the third song her skin was fevered, cheeks flushed, breath quick. He seemed to notice. Without asking, he led her through tall doors onto a balcony, where the night air cooled her. Suramar spread out below, lanterns glimmering, stars twinkling overhead.
"You dance beautifully," he murmured.
When he bent toward her lips, her mask slipped loose. He caught it deftly, but the sight of her face stopped him. His eyes—sharp behind silver constellations—searched hers. She was radiant, yes, but too young.
He pressed a kiss to her hand instead, lingering just enough to make her tremble. "Not tonight, Little Star. You will grow into your beauty soon enough. But I will not take advantage of what is only just beginning to shine."
Her throat tightened, shame and longing colliding until she could scarcely breathe.
He straightened, his tone gentler now. "Remember my name, if nothing else. Lord-Magister Lynath Starwhisper."
Magister. Keeper of the stars. Master of the great Observatory at Tel'anor.
He led her back inside, found Tyrande flushed and radiant from her own dances, and summoned a servant to see them home. But before letting Lytavis go, he bent once more, brushing her knuckles with his lips—a gesture not of conquest, but of promise.
Later, in the dark safety of the woods, Lytavis clutched the mask to her chest, cheeks still burning.
She did not know if she had been dismissed or chosen—only that she would never forget the Magister with the stars in his mask, and the night her world had felt both too dangerous and too irresistible to resist.