Enchanted Crumb was warm with the scent of honey and steeping tea. Tyrande had nearly dragged Lytavis through the door, declaring that three days in the wild deserved celebration. A pot of tea arrived quickly, steam curling in ribbons scenting the air with spice.
"You don't even look tired," Tyrande said around a mouthful, shaking her head in disbelief. "If it were me, I'd be asleep for a week."
Lytavis smiled faintly, pouring the tea first for Tyrande, then for herself. "I'm tired. Just… proud." Her hand brushed the dagger at her belt, its steel glinting faintly in the sunlight. She hadn't hidden it away—it belonged there, a tool like any other. Illidan had given it, yes, but she had wielded it. Survived with it.
She glanced toward the bridge, and her smile deepened. Two figures crossed just then: Malfurion, steady as stone, and Illidan, eyes sharp and a grin tugging at his mouth. Tyrande nearly toppled her tea in her haste to wave them over.
"You made it!" she said brightly as they approached. "Come, sit. We're celebrating Lytavis's trial."
Lytavis removed the dagger from her belt. "I believe this belongs to you." She drew the dagger carefully, the sunlight flashing along the blade like a secret revealed, and held it out, hilt first.
Illidan's gaze flicked to the steel before he lowered himself into the chair beside her. "I see you put it to good use."
"I did," Lytavis answered, voice even. "It served me well. Thank you."
His grin softened. "Then it was no waste of steel."
Malfurion settled opposite Tyrande, expression gentler. "Three days in the wild is no small feat. You've earned more than tea and scones."
"Pie," Tyrande declared at once, eyes alight. "Definitely pie."
The server obliged soon after, bringing a fragrant moonberry tart to the table. Four forks clinked against the plate, laughter spilling easier with every bite. Skye fluttered down to perch on Lytavis's chair, stealing a crumb of crust before preening smugly.
Illidan leaned toward Lytavis at one point, his voice pitched low. "Most noble daughters would have balked at such a test."
Lytavis met his gaze without flinching. "Most noble daughters aren't me."
His laugh came low and genuine, rough around the edges. Across the table, Malfurion listened intently as Tyrande plotted how she might sneak extra garlands into the temple's next festival.
By the time the tart was gone, the afternoon light had gone golden across the canal, petals drifting along the current. Four cups, four voices, four lives drawn quietly closer—not by prophecy, not yet by love, but by the simple sweetness of shared triumph.