The Temple of Elune was hushed in the late afternoon, marble halls carrying the soft rise and fall of prayer. Light filtered through latticed stone, scattering petals across the courtyard like fragments of a hymn. Tyrande sat beneath a flowering arch, lips moving silently as she studied a passage of scripture, her brow furrowed with effort.
Not far away, Lytavis bent over a young novice with a bandaged hand, her touch glowing faintly as she whispered reassurance.
"Patience," she murmured. "The body listens best when the heart is calm." The girl nodded, wide-eyed, as the ache faded beneath her care.
Footsteps echoed, heavier than the priestesses' tread. Lytavis glanced up to see two familiar figures crossing the courtyard: Malfurion, green hair catching the light like sunlit leaves, and Illidan, sharp-eyed and restless, a smile threatening the corners of his mouth.
"Ladies," Illidan said smoothly. "We were on our way to the tea house. Thought you might join us."
"Yes," Tyrande said at once, snapping her book shut with more eagerness than grace. Her cheeks colored, but she didn't retract the word.
Lytavis hesitated, fingers retying the ribbon on her braid. "I shouldn't. Athelan told me my final test is coming soon. He said the timing would be… a surprise."
Illidan tilted his head, curiosity keen. "A test?"
"A survival trial," she explained, voice steady. "Three days. Only what I can carry with me, and what I can find or make on my own."
Illidan didn't laugh. His grin softened, sharpened. "Not exactly the pastime of noble daughters."
Lytavis's lips curved, just faintly. "Some of us know how to do more than pour tea, Illidan."
For a heartbeat he stilled, surprise flickering across his face before it twisted into something sharper—half amusement, half respect. The grin that followed was smaller, but more genuine.
Malfurion inclined his head in approval. "A worthy discipline. The wild teaches lessons no book or prayer can."
Tyrande nudged Lytavis's shoulder. "Which is exactly why you should come to tea first. You've earned one more scone before disappearing into the woods, haven't you?"
Lytavis relented with a sigh and a small smile. "One scone," she said, giving in to her friend's pleading eyes. For an instant, it felt like the moment might stretch—ordinary, sweet, safe.
But the world shifted with the scrape of boots on stone. Another set of steps entered the courtyard, heavy and measured. Athelan filled the archway, shoulders broad, gaze steady as stone. The bow across his back was no ornament.
"It's time," he said simply.
Lytavis froze. "Now?"
"Now." His voice held no room for debate.
Tyrande reached for her hand. "But…"
Athelan shook his head. "The test waits for no one. Come."
Surprise flickered, but resolve followed swiftly, straightening her spine. She moved to gather her satchel, slinging it across her shoulder. Her pulse thudded in her ears, louder than the Temple bells, but her hands were steady.
Illidan's gaze flicked to her, unreadable for a breath. But in that breath, she felt weighed—not mocked, not dismissed, but seen, as though he measured her against something only he could name. Then, in a single subtle motion, his hand brushed hers. Something cool and small slid into the satchel's fold: a dagger, hidden from Athelan's sight.
The weight startled her. She looked up, blue eyes meeting Illidan's golden gaze. He only quirked a brow, the barest ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth.
"Survival favors those who refuse to be ordinary," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that even Malfurion did not hear. Then he stepped back, as if nothing had passed between them.
Athelan turned toward the gate. Lytavis followed, Skye launching from the courtyard wall to settle on her shoulder. Tyrande stood wringing her hands, Malfurion frowning in thought, but Illidan only watched her go, sharp-eyed, intrigued.
And Lytavis walked forward, heart pounding, knowing the test had begun—yet also knowing that, somewhere in her satchel, a secret weight of steel waited at her side.