The healing hall of the Temple smelled of beeswax and crushed herbs. Lytavis sat at a low bench, sleeves rolled to her elbows, carefully cleaning a boy's scraped knee. Her voice was gentle, coaxing a laugh out of him as his tears dried.
Tyrande hovered nearby, gathering bandages, her blue eyes darting often toward the doorway as if she expected someone.
And then someone did arrive.
Illidan.
He stepped inside, his dark hair catching the light, eyes scanning until they found her. The corner of his mouth curved, but the sharp smirk he usually wore was muted.
"Would you like to go for tea?"
Lytavis blinked, surprised. "Tea?" She tilted her head. "Where's Malfurion?"
The words landed harder than she meant.
Illidan's throat tightened. "With himself." The answer came clipped, too quick. Then softer, almost careful: "No. I meant… just me."
She studied him, blue eyes curious, unguarded. "Just you?"
The silence stretched. Illidan felt it like a weight—the old, familiar sting. Malfurion had been chosen first before: by teachers, and by elders. Why not by her, too?
He looked away, jaw taut. "If you'd rather wait for my brother…"
"Are you asking me on a date, Illidan?" Her voice was steady, clear as temple bells.
He froze. Then forced himself to meet her gaze. "Yes." The word came low, stripped of bravado, bare as bone.
For a long moment, she only watched him. Then her lips curved, slow and warm. "Then give me a few minutes. I'll finish up here."
The flicker of doubt lingered in his chest, a ghost refusing to leave. But when she turned back to her patients, he stayed. He leaned against the archway, arms folded, watching her work.
And watching her soothed something raw inside him. The way her hands smoothed ointment over a burn. The way she bent to listen to a child's whispered worry, patient as starlight. The way she laughed softly, a sound without cruelty.
He had never seen gentleness wielded with such certainty.
When at last she tied the final bandage and rose, she smoothed her sleeves and lifted her chin toward him. "Ready."
She waved to Tyrande on her way out. Tyrande's answering smile was sly and knowing, but Lytavis didn't notice.
Illidan did. And for once, he didn't care.
He held the door, letting her step into the sunlit street first.
The tea house was small and sunlit, tucked against the canal where blossoms drifted lazily on the water. The air smelled of honey and warm bread, steam curling from porcelain cups as servers moved quietly between the tables.
Illidan found them a table by the window, restless with energy but sitting straighter than usual. When the server brought tea and scones dripping with honey glaze, he poured Lytavis's cup first.
"You're different today," she said as she accepted it, her lips curving. "Less smirk. More…" She tilted her head, amused. "Calm."
His grin twitched, but he didn't deflect. "I thought if I came here with you, I'd try not to ruin it."
"Ruin what?"
"This," he said simply, gesturing between them.
The word hung in the air—too plain, too raw for him to take back.
Then, almost without thinking, Lytavis reached across the table, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand.
"You couldn't ruin this," she said softly. "Not even if you tried."
Silence lingered, broken only by Skye tapping at the window until Lytavis slipped her a crumb of scone. Illidan's sharp gaze softened as he watched the raven take it delicately from her fingers.
The warmth of her touch remained—light, uncertain, but sincere. Illidan didn't move. Didn't dare.
Then, almost as if the words had been waiting on his tongue, he leaned forward. "I've been studying the arcane."
Lytavis blinked, then tilted her head. "Of course you have. You fairly hum with it."
"You don't disapprove?" His tone was casual, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight of the question.
"Why would I?" She broke her scone neatly in two, her voice thoughtful. "Magic is like any tool. Useful or dangerous, depending on the wielder."
Illidan stilled, struck. Slowly, almost against his will, he smiled. "Then perhaps I'm in the right place. With the right person."
Her cheeks warmed, but she didn't look away. "Perhaps you are."
They lingered long after the tea cooled, talk wandering toward lighter things—Ginger stealing cucumbers from the garden, Tyrande muttering prayers over everything she touched, Malfurion listening to roots as though they whispered back. Easy laughter, unguarded and warm.
When at last they stepped outside, the canal shimmered with drifting blossoms, and Skye swooped low to land on Lytavis's shoulder. Illidan reached for her hand—a little too gallant, a little too formal, but honest all the same. She let him take it, fingers fitting into his.
Skye eyed their joined hands, then gave an approving croak when Illidan held out a small piece of honeyed scone he had saved just for her. She snapped it up neatly, feathers brushing his knuckles before she settled back against Lytavis.
And for once, Illidan didn't feel like second. He felt chosen.