Illidan's Private Journal - The Weight of Small Miracles
(fragment, penned in Illidan's hand)
I carried baskets for her today.
It should have felt absurd—a Magister's apprentice running errands like a porter.
It didn't.
Bread. Linens. Herbs. The sort of things that seem ordinary until you watch her turn them into grace.
Lytavis does not ask for help—she assumes it will come. And somehow, it does. No light, no spell, no grand incantation—just her will, steady as a heartbeat, and a voice that could talk the world back into stillness.
Lytavis does not fight for glory. She doesn't even call it battle. She steadies a frightened woman's breath, wipes sweat from her brow, and calls that enough.
I think this is what true power looks like—not in conquest, but in restoration.
In the hands that gather what's been broken and dare to believe it can be whole again.
When she smiled at me afterward, exhaustion soft at the corners of her mouth, I felt something shift.
No spells. No words. Just that look, and the quiet knowledge that I would follow her anywhere she asked me to go.
We kissed again at her gate.
It isn't new anymore—it's the language we've both learned by instinct.
The world stops making noise when her lips find mine.
There are no battles in it. No gods. No lessons.
Only the small, impossible mercy of stillness.
Tomorrow she'll see my life, and I'll pretend I'm showing her something worth knowing
but we both already understand whose world truly matters.