The birthing room smelled of herbs and sweat, of candle wax guttering low and cloths rinsed too many times. Lytavis sat back on her heels at last, silver hair damp at her temples, voice low and steady as she guided the exhausted mother through the final push.
"There," she whispered, easing the squalling infant into Aldrina's trembling arms. "He's strong. You did beautifully."
Aldrina's eyes flooded with relief, her small frame shaking with tired laughter.
"Keldos," she breathed, looking at her husband.
Garthis smiled, awe softening the sharpness of his features. "Keldos," he echoed.
Lytavis stayed until she was certain - until the rhythm of breath and heartbeat steadied, until color rose back into Aldrina's cheeks. She gave Garthis quiet instructions as she cleaned her tools and packed them away: how to keep the cord clean and dry, how to let the mother rest, how to feed her properly in the coming days. The young father nodded at every word, reverent and overwhelmed.
Only when she was satisfied did she slip her satchel over her shoulder, murmuring a final blessing before stepping out into the violet dusk.
The streets of Suramar glowed faintly with lanterns, blossoms drifting in the evening breeze. Her pace slowed, exhaustion tugging at her bones - but her thoughts wandered ahead, unbidden, toward a future that had nothing to do with tonight's mother or child.
What would her children look like? Would they inherit her pale hair, or his dark? Blue eyes, or golden?
She smiled faintly, cheeks warming. She imagined small hands curling around hers, laughter echoing through the villa halls, Skye glaring imperiously at any infant who dared to steal attention. Ginger, she thought, would simply curl around them and call them hers.
The thought carried her home, lighter than her weary stride should have allowed.
The Ariakan villa smelled of baking bread and spices. In the kitchen, Zoya stood with sleeves rolled, kneading dough on the floured table. Her sharp eyes softened as Lytavis slipped in, tired and flushed but smiling faintly.
"A boy," Lytavis said, sinking into the nearest chair. "A hard labor. But both are well."
Zoya brushed a flour-dusted hand across her daughter's cheek. "Good. Sit. Tell me everything while I finish this loaf."
And she did - hands tracing the motions as she spoke: the long hours, the final cry, the joy of a safe ending. Zoya listened, intent, the corners of her mouth curving in quiet pride.
The sound of the door opening drew their attention. Lucien stepped from his study with Illidan beside him, both men caught mid-conversation, their voices carrying the rhythm of arcane debate. Lucien's tone was thoughtful; Illidan's alive with restless energy, his fingers sketching invisible runes in the air…
Until he saw her.
The words died. The movement stopped.
Without hesitation, without thought, he crossed the room.
His hand found her shoulder. His lips found hers - quick, certain, utterly uncalculated.
A kiss in greeting.
A kiss in relief.
A kiss that said far more than he meant it to.
The silence that followed was louder than any spell.
Illidan froze, realization striking an instant too late. His golden eyes flicked from Lucien to Zoya, then back to her.
No one spoke.
Zoya only turned back to her bread, kneading with unhurried calm, as though she'd seen this coming since the first day he walked through her door. Lucien folded his arms, expression unreadable - but not unkind.
And Lytavis - her blue eyes met his, steady and luminous. She didn't laugh. She didn't tease. She simply reached up and brushed her thumb across his cheek, anchoring him back into the moment he'd nearly fled.
The silence softened, shaped into something unspoken but understood.
For the first time in his life, Illidan Stormrage felt the weight of being welcomed without condition.