The Ariakan villa welcomed them with the hum of the leyline underfoot, blossoms heavy in the orchard, and Ginger the fox trotting out to meet them as though she had been waiting all day.
Lytavis led the way through the courtyard, still carrying the basket the tea house had packed for them—a parcel of blueberry and lemon bars and cinnamon rolls wrapped in linen. Tyrande followed at her side, her hand brushing Malfurion's arm as if by accident. Illidan trailed a step behind, sharp-eyed as ever, his gaze flicking over every arch and garden wall as though measuring the place.
Lucien was the first to meet them, pausing mid-conversation with Elise when he saw the company his daughter had brought home. He raised his brows. "Well. This is new."
Zoya appeared from the orchard, earth still clinging to her fingertips. Her expression softened when she saw Tyrande, then shifted curiously toward the twins. "And who," she asked mildly, "are these young men?"
Lytavis's grin was quick and unrepentant. "Friends. From the festival. From the temple." She set the basket down and slipped her arm through Illidan's, her blue eyes gleaming. "This is Illidan. And his brother, Malfurion."
Illidan inclined his head, polite but restless, clearly unused to introductions. Malfurion bowed slightly, his voice steady. "An honor, Lady Ariakan. Lord Ariakan."
Lucien chuckled, stroking his chin. "Polite," he said, nodding at Malfurion—then turned his gaze to Illidan. "And this one?"
"Full of secrets," Lytavis said brightly before Illidan could open his mouth.
Tyrande nearly choked on a laugh, covering it with a cough. Malfurion's lips twitched, though he tried to keep his face solemn.
Zoya's eyes danced. "Well. Secrets or not, you're welcome here. Any friend of my daughter—and of Tyrande—is a guest in this house." She reached out, brushing a crumb of pie from Lytavis's cheek, then gave Illidan a look that was both amused and assessing. "Though if you stay, you'd best learn to share your secrets with Ginger. She's the real master here."
Ginger, as if on cue, padded forward and nosed Illidan's hand. For the first time, the boy's grin flickered into something surprised and almost soft.
It was only the beginning. For as the evening stretched on, the villa revealed itself to its guests.
A low growl rolled across the veranda as a shadow shifted, then resolved into Whisper—a full-grown nightsaber, her dark coat striping silver in the lamplight. She stretched languidly along the rail, golden eyes opening to regard the visitors with unblinking calm. Malfurion stilled, his hand halfway to his cup, then murmured with quiet awe, "A creature at ease in the company of kin—that speaks well of this place."
Lytavis only smiled, reaching to scratch behind Whisper's ear as though greeting an old friend. "Welcome," she said lightly, sweeping her gaze over the boys and Tyrande alike. "Welcome to the Menagerie."
A pair of sparrows darted in and out of the open window, perching boldly on the curtain rod. Skye claimed her usual post at Lytavis's chair, glaring at anyone who reached too close to the cinnamon rolls.
Dinner was simple but warm—roasted roots, herb-laced bread, fish caught that morning from the river. Zoya poured wine into clay cups, Lucien cutting thick slices of bread while listening with wry amusement to Lytavis talk of her menagerie.
Malfurion listened closely, asking careful questions about the animals under Lytavis's care, nodding at the answers as though committing them to memory. Tyrande, seated beside him, chimed in now and again with teasing commentary.
Illidan seemed intent on behaving. He sat straighter than usual, his sharp eyes fixed not on the doorways or the windows, but on Lucien and Zoya as they spoke. When Zoya passed him the bread, he accepted it with a murmured "thank you."
Lucien asked about the boys, and Illidan answered neatly—not boastful, not cutting, but with a wry humor that made Zoya's lips twitch despite herself.
But Lytavis noticed the truth: his attention was never far from her. When she laughed, his eyes flicked toward her. When she spoke, he leaned in, listening more intently than he did to any story from her father. And when Skye hopped boldly onto the table to snatch a crumb, Illidan didn't startle or scold—he simply offered the raven a bit more, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Zoya caught it all. She didn't comment—not directly—but her expression softened when Illidan politely asked after her herb garden, and softer still when he refilled Lytavis's cup without being prompted.
By the end of the meal, Lucien clapped him lightly on the shoulder as though he'd passed some unspoken test. Zoya smiled her sharp, knowing smile, the kind that meant she was already thinking three steps ahead.
And Lytavis… she leaned back in her chair, her blue eyes catching Illidan's. He wasn't smirking now. He wasn't teasing. Just watching her, steady and quiet, as though for once in his restless life, he had found a place worth staying still.
Yes, she thought. This was the Menagerie: fox and nightsaber, sparrow and raven, father and mother, priestess and druid, secret-keeping boy and the girl who dared to name him so. A place where wildness and welcome lived side by side.