Illidan arrived at the Ariakan villa with purpose in his stride, though he hid it under the sharp, deliberate lines of his expression. He had a plan. More than that—he had hope.
Lytavis was still at the Temple, so he found her mother in the courtyard, brushing soil from her hands after tending the herb beds. When he asked—somewhat stiffly—where he might take her daughter for a proper dinner, Zoya's brows rose, but her smile came slow and knowing.
"She's always loved the Vineyard Bistro," she said, dusting her palms together. "It isn't cheap. Most go there for anniversaries and other special occasions."
Illidan inclined his head. "Then that is where I'll take her."
Something flickered across Zoya's face—not surprise, not amusement, but a quiet recognition. "Good," she said simply, and returned to her garden.
At the Temple, he found Lytavis tending injuries in the healing hall. He stood in the doorway, golden eyes fixed on her until she glanced up and smiled—one of those smiles that made his resolve a living thing.
"Dinner," he said, voice steady. "The Vineyard Bistro. Tonight."
Her brows lifted. "The Vineyard?"
"Six o'clock," he confirmed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth before he turned and left. He didn't wait for her answer. He already knew it.
Back in his quarters, he bathed until the dust of training was gone, then dressed with care. His finest robes: dark blue, stitched with silver runes that caught the light like quiet constellations. In the mirror, he barely recognized himself. The restless boy who once picked fights in courtyards was gone. What remained was deliberate, intent, and very nearly brave.
At six, he returned to the Temple, heart thrumming like a taut string. Tyrande was the only one there, bent over her tablets. She looked up at his question and shook her head.
"She's not here."
He left before she could say more.
The Vineyard Bistro glowed golden against the terraces of Suramar's vines, its lanterns bright as captive stars. Couples filled the garden seats, laughter threading through the evening hum. Illidan searched every table. No Lytavis.
By the time he strode back to the villa, the precision of his composure had begun to fray. Zoya met him at the door, reading far more than his expression gave away. Mothers always did.
"She's not home yet," she said, calm as ever. "Come, sit. Tea while you wait."
"I don't need tea," he muttered—then sat anyway.
Lucien soon emerged from his study, brows lifting slightly at the sight of Illidan in silver-threaded finery. "I see you've dressed for occasion," he said mildly, before steering the conversation toward arcane theory. They spoke of leyline harmonics and the fragility of twisted wards, and for a time, Illidan's impatience found shelter in the language of spellcraft.
The door opened at last with a rush of night air. Lytavis stumbled in, hair loose from its braid, healer's robes torn and streaked with blood and dust. A smear marked her cheek; her hands were scraped where rope had bitten.
"I'm so sorry," she breathed, eyes finding Illidan first. "There was a fall—an adventurer down a cliffside. I had to be lowered to him. There was no way to send word."
Zoya's hand flew to her daughter's arm, Lucien's gaze sharpened, but when they saw she stood whole, they withdrew quietly, giving space without a word.
Illidan rose, the silver threads of his robe catching the lamplight. His heart had dropped at the sight of her battered and breathless, but when he stepped close, relief burned away everything else.
He reached for her face, his thumb brushing the dirt from her cheek. "I don't care about the dinner," he said, voice low and unguarded. "I'm just glad you're safe."
Her lips parted in a weary laugh. "You wore your best robes."
"And you," he murmured, "ruined yours."
She laughed again—soft, disbelieving—and then his mouth was on hers, warm and real and full of everything he hadn't said.
Outside, the garden lanterns glowed without them.
But here, in the quiet light of the Ariakan villa, dirt and blood and lamplight between them, they made a different kind of promise—one no terrace feast could ever rival.