Blooming Brews was alive with the quiet symphony of mid-afternoon—spoons chiming against porcelain, the scent of honey and tea leaves steeping in sun-warmed air. Lytavis and Tyrande shared a plate of scones dusted in sugar, their laughter easy and familiar, spilling like light across the little table.
Sister Tyratha's arrival shattered it.
She came running, skirts hitched, breath sharp. "Lytavis—Tessa Nightpath is in labor. Early. She's alone."
Lytavis was already standing before the sentence ended. Her teacup rattled as she set it down. "Where?"
"The tenements off Harbor Row."
Tyrande reached for her hand, but Lytavis was already gone—cloak slung over her arm, the door swinging shut behind her.
The streets narrowed as she descended through the city's older tiers. Sunlight faded to a dull, copper echo. The smell of dampness and boiled grain hung in the air. She found the building easily—a crumbling stairwell that creaked under her feet, leading to a single room that barely deserved the name.
Inside, heat and fear tangled thickly. One candle guttered on the sill. The floor was swept clean, but there was nothing else—no window, no comfort, only a narrow bed and a woman fighting to bring new life into a world that had forgotten her.
"Tessa," Lytavis said softly, dropping her satchel beside the bed. "You're not alone now."
The woman's eyes opened, wild and glassy. "It hurts," she gasped.
"I know. You're safe. We'll do this together."
There was no miracle here, only labor—long and relentless. The hours blurred into the steady rhythm of pain and breath, whispered reassurances, the slow ritual of endurance. Lytavis cooled Tessa's brow with damp cloths, coaxed her to take sips of water between contractions, steadied trembling hands when fear made them shake.
At last, just past dawn, a cry split the air—thin, fierce, alive.
Lytavis caught the child in her palms, small and perfect, slick with the sheen of beginnings. "It's a boy," she whispered, voice breaking with relief. "He's here, Tessa."
The mother sobbed, gathering the infant to her chest. "Arellor," she murmured. "After his father."
Lytavis smiled through the ache in her throat. "He'll carry the name well."
She stayed until both slept—mother and child curled together in the fragile peace that follows survival. She cleaned the basin, folded the linens, swept the floor, and left what coins she had on the cracked table. Then she slipped out into morning.
By the time she reached the Temple, the sun was high, burning away the mist that lingered in the gardens. Tyrande found her there, pale and exhausted, the scent of birth still clinging to her hands.
"She's destitute," Lytavis said simply. "They have nothing—no food, no candles, no clean cloths."
Tyrande's eyes softened. "Her husband passed a few months ago. Let's go see what's in the storerooms."
They moved quickly, purpose making the air hum. From the storerooms came blankets, towels, diapers, gowns, shoes, and a shawl soft enough for a new mother to dream under. In the kitchens they packed baskets with bread, fruit, dried grains, and jars of broth. Sister Perla and Sister Tyratha joined in, sleeves rolled, laughter breaking the solemn rhythm of work.
Even with all four of them, there was more to carry than hands allowed. And then—as if summoned by fate's sense of timing—Illidan and Malfurion stepped through the Temple gates.
"Perfect," Lytavis said, setting a basket into Illidan's startled arms before he could greet her. "You're conscripted."
He blinked once, then smiled faintly. "What cause am I serving?"
"Life," she said simply.
Neither brother needed more explanation. They followed her through the winding streets, sunlight glancing off the baskets they bore.
Tessa's small home seemed brighter for their arrival—laughter and warm voices filling spaces that had only known silence. Sister Perla set the supplies down with the reverence of an offering. "When you're well enough," she said gently, "come to the Temple. We always need help in the nursery. You'll have food, work, and your son beside you. This isn't charity, Tessa. It's a beginning."
Tessa tried to answer but could only cry, clutching her son tighter.
Lytavis straightened the blankets one last time and brushed Tessa's hair from her damp forehead. "Rest," she whispered. "You've already done the hardest part."
By the time they left, the day had settled into the soft gold of late morning. Suramar's streets shimmered with new light; vendors were calling out their wares, and the air smelled of sweetbread and salt.
Lytavis walked quietly, hand in hand with Illidan, the basket now empty at her side. He didn't speak until they reached the quiet lane leading to her villa.
"You move the world," he said finally, voice low, "and it doesn't even know it."
She turned, caught between laughter and disbelief. "I deliver babies, Illidan."
He nodded. "Yes, and you also deliver hope."
The words struck something tender. Before she could answer, he stepped closer and kissed her—gentle, deliberate, reverent. When they parted, the world seemed softer for it.
"Tomorrow," he said, his breath still mingling with hers. "Spend the day with me."
Her smile was small and certain. "Yes."
He waited until she was inside, the villa door closing behind her like the end of a prayer. Then he turned toward the apprentices' quarters, the morning light on his shoulders, still carrying the quiet awe of what he had just seen — and the woman who had taught him what grace truly looked like.