The morning light spilled soft across the villa, gilding the dew on the garden walls. The scent of bread and herbs drifted from the Ariakan kitchen, a promise and a memory all at once.
Illidan stood waiting by the door, posture deceptively casual, though his sharp gaze lingered on the path until Lytavis appeared. He had no gift in his hands, nothing grand—only two warm crescent rolls wrapped in paper and a look that dared her to tease him for it.
She didn't. She smiled instead, wide and genuine, taking the one he offered and brushing his fingers in the process. He caught her hand, pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles—soft, easy, familiar—and released it again as if it were the most natural exchange in the world.
They began with the familiar streets of Suramar, though Illidan led her by quieter turns, avoiding the markets and the crowded bridges. He showed her narrow walkways where the canals mirrored the sky, half-hidden balconies where students had carved runes into the stone—lines softened by moss and time.
Lytavis laughed at his commentary—biting, impatient, but sharp enough to reveal which works he secretly admired and which he couldn't stand. Each time she laughed, his hand found hers again, almost unconsciously, like a rhythm he'd forgotten he knew.
By midday they reached the shadowed stairwell that led to Magister Darkgrove's laboratory. The wards shimmered faintly over the door, but Illidan pressed his palm to the sigils and they parted like mist.
Inside was another world entirely. Books and scrolls in careful chaos, lenses suspended on threads of arcane light, starlight caught in bowls of crystal water.
Lytavis drew in her breath, wonder bright in her face. She touched nothing until Illidan guided her forward.
"This one," he said, tracing a rune that burned violet in the air. "It bends light through itself. Watch."
He shifted the lens, and the walls bloomed with a map of constellations—thousands of points of light, each one breathing faintly as if alive.
Lytavis gasped. He glanced sideways, sharp with pride, as though her awe was worth more than the spell itself.
When she reached out to steady the lens, her fingers brushed his. This time he didn't pull back. His hand turned in hers, his thumb tracing the pulse at her wrist before he let go.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the hum of arcane light, the soft heartbeat of the room around them.
The afternoon drew them into the gardens. Suramar's nobles tended their splendor in careful rows of fruit trees and flowering trellises, petals drifting through the air like slow snowfall.
They found a bench beneath a blossoming bough, and Illidan set down the small satchel he had carried since morning. Inside was bread, cheese, and fruit, wrapped hurriedly in Elise's neat hands at dawn.
"It isn't wine and crystal platters," he said, almost defensive.
"It's perfect," she replied, taking his hand again. Her fingers curled easily into his—a gesture that no longer surprised either of them.
The garden's hush folded around them, thick with scent and the hum of bees. He leaned back, one arm along the bench, and let her lean against him. When she stole the last bite of cheese from his fingers, he caught her hand, kissed her fingertips, and smiled like a man who'd finally learned contentment.
Evening brought the harbor, the smell of salt and spice mingling with the sound of laughter and music. Lanterns floated across the water, their reflections glittering like small, stubborn stars.
They stood together at the end of the pier, watching the light multiply across the bay. Lytavis drew her cloak close against the breeze. Without thinking, Illidan reached to adjust it at her shoulder. His hand stayed there, warm and steady.
She turned to him then, her eyes catching the lantern glow. He meant to speak, but she reached for him instead—a soft press of lips that felt less like discovery and more like return.
When they parted, the water rippled, the world kept moving, and yet something inside both of them went still.
Illidan rested his forehead briefly against hers. "If I could keep a single day from breaking," he murmured, "it would be this one."
Lytavis smiled against his jaw. "Then stop counting the hours."
He did—at least for a while.
They walked back through the winding streets, the city glowing around them like a promise. At her gate, he kissed her once more—a lingering thing that said more than words could manage—and when he drew back, his voice was quiet.
"When your duties allow… will you come with me again?"
Her answer was simple, certain. "Yes."
He waited until she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. Then he turned toward the apprentices' quarters, the warmth of her hand still caught in his, and the night ahead already too long.