The Temple of Elune was hushed in late afternoon light, its marble veined with silver glow. In the Children's Hall, voices rose and fell like birdsong—not prayers, but the lilting cadence of a story.
Lytavis sat cross-legged on the woven mat, a tiny girl balanced on her lap, hair as fine as spun moonlight. Around her, half a dozen orphans leaned in, eyes wide, breath caught on every turn of the page.
"The stars will know you. In one, I'll be dreaming. In another, I'll be waiting. And in the quiet between them, I'll be listening." Lytavis finished, her voice soft as starlight itself. The children sighed, smiling, some clapping small hands.
She bent and kissed the girl on her lap upon the brow, then gently set her on the floor. One by one, the others crowded close—clamoring for embraces, for the warmth of her arms, for the same benediction of a kiss. She gave each freely, steady and unhurried, until every child was smiling.
Illidan watched from the doorway. Silent. Still.
Her hair caught the light. Her hands never faltered. Her laughter carried more magic than half the incantations he had spent nights chasing in stolen scrolls. And for a moment, he thought: This is what strength looks like. Not flame, not fury—something gentler, rarer.
At last, when the children scattered to their games, she rose, smoothing her skirts. Her eyes found his in the doorway. Without hesitation, without coyness, she stepped close and pressed her lips to his. A light kiss, nothing lingering. A greeting.
It stunned him. Not because it was grand, but because it was simple. Because she gave it like it cost her nothing, and meant everything.
"Hello," she said softly, amusement in her eyes.
His smile was crooked, unguarded. "Hello."
They left together beneath the temple arches, the city bright with blossoms and late light. As they walked, their hands brushed, then linked.
"My father would like to see you," she said after a time, her tone casual, though the weight of it made his heart catch. "He has lessons for you. Things not taught anymore. Things still important."
Illidan glanced at her, sharp edges softened. "Lessons? For me?"
Her smile curved, sure. "You impressed him."
The words struck harder than he expected, stirring something fierce and fragile inside him. He said only, "I'll try not to waste it."
"You won't," she answered, certain.
The Ariakan villa welcomed them with lanterns already lit, the orchard humming with leyline breath. Ginger bounded out of the courtyard, yipping, tail high, nose darting between their joined hands as if to approve. Her russet fur shimmered faintly, as if she too carried a trace of the leyline's glow.
Lucien stood at the steps, spectacles perched low, a small bundle of scrolls under his arm. His gaze flicked from daughter to suitor and back again. A pause—long enough to measure, not long enough to doubt. Then he inclined his head.
"Illidan," he said. "You've kept your word. Come in."
Illidan bowed, not stiff but respectful. "Thank you, Lord Ariakan."
Lucien's mouth twitched faintly. "Lucien will do, in the study. Bring your questions. I'll show you the path to the answers."
As Illidan moved to follow, Lytavis caught his arm. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick, warm, steady. "Good luck," she whispered, eyes gleaming.
For once, he did not feel like the intruder. He felt… expected. Wanted.
And when Lucien's study door closed behind him, Illidan carried not just questions, but the quiet weight of belonging—his first true lesson, rarer than any spell in the world.