Evening lanterns flared along the Grand Promenade as Illidan and Lytavis walked side by side, fingers intertwined. Blossoms drifted down in slow spirals; Skye swooped to pluck one from Lytavis's hair and dropped it—very deliberately—onto Illidan's shoulder.
"She approves," Lytavis laughed, brushing the petal away.
"I'd hate to be on her bad side," he murmured, saving a last sugared crumb of scone in his palm. Skye hopped to his wrist, took it neatly, and settled back on Lytavis's shoulder like a judgmental epaulet.
The Ariakan villa lifted out of the dusk, orchard breathing that familiar, low hum of ley beneath the stones. Ginger streaked from the courtyard to meet them, tail scything the air. She circled Lytavis once, then sniffed Illidan's boots with grave ceremony before deciding he was acceptable and bumping her head against his knee.
At the threshold, Lucien appeared, arms folded, a line of amusement tugging his mouth. Zoya followed, hands dusted with flour, gaze going first to their joined hands and then to Illidan's face.
"We had tea," Lytavis said, chin high, eyes bright.
"And scones," Illidan offered, almost solemn.
Zoya held his gaze a heartbeat, assessing; then her voice warmed. "Come inside, Illidan. A man's worth is shown at the table more than on the street."
Ginger yipped as if in agreement. Skye gave a prim little croak. Together they crossed into the lamplight and the soft, homing scent of bread and herbs.
Dinner was simple: quail roasted with rosemary and thyme, a clay pot of stew fragrant with wild onions, a loaf crackling from the oven. To Illidan, it looked like a banquet.
Elise portioned the quail with careful hands and passed the platter. Illidan took his plate with a quiet, "Thank you," that made Lytavis's mouth curve.
Under the table, Ginger nosed at his boots. On the chair-back, Skye angled a glossy eye toward the bread. Illidan broke the heel and—without being asked—offered a morsel to each. Ginger accepted with gallant restraint; Skye snapped her piece and clicked approvingly. Lytavis's laugh spilled, soft and pleased.
Lucien poured wine into shallow cups. "And what paths do you walk, Illidan Stormrage? Where do your studies take you?"
"The arcane," he said, steady. "Books, scrolls—practice where I can find it. I'm an apprentice to Magister Darkgrove at the moment."
Lucien's brow lifted. "The arcane can sharpen or scorch, depending on the hand that wields it."
Illidan didn't flinch. "So can any tool. It's the wielder's heart that decides."
A flicker—Lytavis's fingers brushed his under the table, brief and sure. Zoya saw the motion, or perhaps felt the shift; she tipped a little wine into Illidan's cup as if sealing an answer. "Then eat," she said, not unkindly. "Let steadiness keep ahead of hunger."
Conversation found its stride. Lucien spoke of grafting pear boughs onto stubborn rootstock, of soil that remembered old rains. Zoya described a spice vendor at the daytime market who swore his rosemary could turn a quarrel into a courtship. Lytavis teased that if that were true, she'd buy the entire stall. Skye, affronted by laughter she wasn't the cause of, stole a heel of bread and became the cause after all.
Illidan, to his own surprise, listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, he chose his moments: a precise observation about binding theory hidden in a temple hymn, a rueful confession that he'd once singed off his own eyebrows trying a candle-flame charm ("briefly," he insisted; Lytavis clutched her side with laughter), a question for Lucien about pruning at the right moon-phase. He did not preen. He did not posture. He answered when addressed, and the rest of the time he watched Lytavis glow.
Ginger, satisfied with the state of hospitality, curled against Lytavis's boot. The ley's hum threaded under the floor like a heartbeat. Candlelight made little golds in Lytavis's hair; when she lifted her cup, Illidan's gaze followed the movement as though it were a spell.
"You're very quiet," Lucien said at last, not unkindly.
"I'm… learning the room," Illidan answered, unable to take his eyes off Lytavis.
Lytavis's smile was all brightness. Zoya's wasn't so far behind.
They finished with the last of the bread and a wash of wine. Skye preened an obsidian-glossed feather. Ginger sighed a fox's contented sigh. Lucien leaned back, satisfied in that way of men whose house feels full. Zoya gathered empty plates, but not before smoothing her thumb over a smear of berry at the corner of Illidan's plate—an old habit of motherhood she seemed startled to catch herself at. Illidan noticed. The gesture stayed with him longer than the taste of wine.
"Tomorrow we trim the herbs," she said, more to Lytavis than anyone. Then, to Illidan, "You're welcome to return. Not for scones." One corner of her mouth tilted. "For work."
Illidan's grin, when it came, was unguarded. "Yes, Lady Ariakan."
"Zoya," she corrected. "If you're to be in my kitchen, call me Zoya."
"Yes, Zoya."
Lytavis rose to help her mother with the dishes; Illidan half-stood on instinct. "Let me…"
Zoya waved him down with a wooden spoon. "Another day," she said. "A man's worth is shown at the table, and again when he comes back."
Lucien pushed a small basket across the table. "Take this to the veranda. The air's good tonight." Inside lay slices of bread, a crock no one needed but everyone always wanted: honey.
They stepped into the orchard's breath, the night soft with leaf-scent and the low thrumming of the ley. Fireflies stitched faint seams between lanterns. Lytavis leaned on the warm stone rail; Illidan set the basket beside her, fingers brushing hers for the smallest, deliberate second.
"Thank you for dinner," he said, voice low.
"Thank you for asking me to tea," she returned, just as low.
Skye rustled on the eave above them. Ginger snuck out and flopped bonelessly across both their boots, claiming them with fox arrogance. Illidan looked down, then up, then at Lytavis—at the honey gleam on her lips, at the way the lamplight found blue in her eyes.
"May I…" Illidan began, then faltered, startled by the weight of his own hesitation. I, who have never asked… The words snagged in his throat.
She saved him. She tipped her face toward his, her blue eyes steady and unafraid. "Yes."
That was all it took.
Illidan leaned in, lips brushing hers with the kind of reverence he had never shown to spell or scroll. It was not practiced—it could not be. It was his first kiss, as much as hers. Gentle, tentative, almost wondering. For a moment, neither of them breathed. Then she answered with a smile against his mouth, and he deepened it, still careful, still new. Her fingers curled into his sleeve, steadying herself as much as him.
When they parted, Skye croaked from the trellis as if to mark the moment. Ginger huffed and resettled across their boots, wholly unimpressed.
They laughed—hers unsteady, his quiet and breathless—and for a heartbeat they had nothing to measure it against, no memory but this one. And that was enough.