Illidan's Private Journal - The Reverence of Small Things
(Journal fragment, penned in Illidan's hand.)
We hunted today. Not in the training rings or the city, but in the wild hills where foxes and pheasants test the orchards' balance. I loosed arrows too quickly, missed more than I struck. Tyrande's shot was cleaner than mine. Malfurion listened to trees instead of his bowstring.
But she – Lytavis—moved as if the forest had shaped her. She returned with pheasants in hand and laughter in her eyes. When she tossed a rabbit to me, she said, "Perhaps next time, you'll manage it yourself." I should have bristled. Instead, I smiled.
At the villa, her parents made us dress the game. I cut poorly, jagged. Zoya rebuked me: quick to spill blood, but reverence takes practice. She was right. I have studied power, bent it, broken it, sought it in every form—but reverence? That is rarer.
Lytavis showed it. She plucked feathers neatly, setting them aside for fletching, as if nothing was wasted. Her hands were steady, her voice calm, her smile untroubled. She reminded me that steel is not the only kind of sharpness.
I tasted the meal after, and I knew it was different. Not because of herbs or fire, but because of the small things—the work, the patience, the reverence I lacked but she carried.
It unsettles me. Power I understand. But reverence… I am still learning.