Illidan had expected another evening of parchment and patient correction. Lucien's letters waited in the study, ink steady as stone, but Illidan's steps slowed as he crossed the villa's orchard.
Lytavis was kneeling near the garden wall, half-hidden by the brush. Her braid had come loose, silvery strands catching the light as she leaned forward, voice low, coaxing. The basket she usually carried for herbs lay abandoned in the grass.
He frowned, sharp eyes narrowing. Something shifted in the thicket—a low, warning rumble. Instinct surged before thought, and he was moving, hand snapping around her arm to pull her back.
"Move away," he hissed, already pulling her behind him.
But she wrenched her arm free with surprising strength, her blue eyes flashing. "Illidan, stop. It's just Whisper."
He blinked, disbelief cutting through his adrenaline. The sound came again—not a snarl, but the labored, rasping breath of something in pain. Or… something else.
"She's having her cubs," Lytavis said, her tone calm but firm. "Look."
Illidan hesitated, then leaned just far enough to see. In the cool shadow of the hedge lay a great manasaber, sides heaving with labored breath. Against her flank, two impossibly small cubs mewled weakly, their fur still damp, their ears no bigger than Lytavis's thumb.
Every muscle in Illidan's body demanded tension, demanded readiness. He had studied predators, knew their speed, their strength. Yet Whisper's glowing eyes were not wild with threat—they were dulled by exhaustion, softened by trust. Trust that wasn't his.
"She came here," Lytavis murmured, easing closer. Her hand brushed over the great cat's head, fingers gentle between the twitch of ears. "She always comes when she's hurt. She knows I'll help her."
"You…" Illidan began, then stopped, words thin on his tongue. He wanted to say reckless, foolish—but watching Lytavis stroke the manasaber, watching Whisper lean into her touch despite her strain, the word that came instead was, "Chosen."
A faint smile touched her lips. She shifted to check the cubs, tucking moss around their tiny bodies with practiced care. Whisper rumbled low, but the sound was almost content.
Illidan stayed a step back, not daring to intrude, his sharp eyes caught by the sight: Lytavis, calm in the presence of claw and fang, her hands steady where his might have faltered. The cubs squeaked, their small mouths seeking warmth. Lytavis guided them gently to their mother's belly, her voice low and soothing.
He had seen magic wrought from scroll and spellbook. He had seen wards and wards broken. But this—this was something else. No spell. No incantation. Only the quiet, impossible bond between her and the wild.
When she finally glanced back at him, her cheeks flushed with exertion, her braid falling loose over her shoulder, she smiled as if none of this were extraordinary. "I'll stay with her until the others come. You should go in. My father's waiting."
Illidan swallowed, throat dry, and shook his head. "I'll wait with you."
Something softened in her gaze, and for a moment, even the hum of the leyline seemed to hush. The cubs nuzzled blindly, Whisper sighed, and Illidan realized with sudden clarity that he would follow this girl anywhere—even into the jaws of a predator.