The sun had only just begun to dip when Lytavis and Tyrande reached the Ariakan villa. The orchard glowed bronze in the late light, the branches whispering overhead, and the windows shone with soft lamplight—warm in a way Tyrande hadn't realized she was desperate for until now.
Zoya met them in the kitchen doorway with a knowing smile and the kind of welcome that felt like being folded straight into a warm quilt.
"Well," she said, hands settling on her hips, "someone looks like she needs honeycakes."
Tyrande flushed, startled and touched all at once. "You… remembered?"
"Of course I did. When my daughter writes a note saying 'Tyrande needs rest,' honeycakes become a medical necessity."
Zoya lifted a platter: warm, soft, golden cakes sprinkled lightly with cinnamon. "Sit. Both of you."
Elise appeared with a steaming pot of ginger and lemon tea, its bright aroma curling through the air. She poured for them with the gentle formality she reserved for beloved guests.
Ginger trotted in right on cue—all russet fluff and air of the undisputed Queen of the Ariakan household. She sniffed Tyrande solemnly, accepted a morsel of honeycake with the dignity of a crowned monarch, then curled at her feet with a long, luxurious sigh.
Tyrande laughed—genuinely, lightly—and some quiet corner of Lytavis's heart warmed at the sound.
When Lucien joined them, wiping ink from his fingers, Zoya ushered everyone toward the long dining table. Elise and Zoya set out roasted quail glazed in herbs, spiced wild rice dotted with dried berries, and vegetables still warm from the garden.
Tyrande's eyes widened. "This… this is far more than I expected."
"Nonsense," Zoya said, placing a quail on her plate. "You're too thin. Temple food doesn't put enough on anyone's bones."
"Min'da…" Lytavis murmured, trying and failing to hide her smile.
As they ate, Lucien turned his thoughtful gaze toward Tyrande.
"How go your studies at the Temple?" he asked.
Tyrande straightened a little, though the question softened under Lucien's tone.
"Well," she said carefully, "I'm learning much. Scripture. Liturgies. History. And… meditation." A tiny exhale escaped her. "A great deal of meditation."
Zoya hummed knowingly. "Meditation is good for the soul. But too much of anything is its own burden."
Tyrande nodded, grateful for the gentle truth in those words.
Lytavis brushed her foot lightly against hers beneath the table—a silent reminder that she wasn't alone.
Dessert was honeycakes again—warm, fragrant, meltingly soft. Tyrande declared them the best she'd ever tasted, and Zoya accepted the praise with a smug flourish of her napkin.
The sky had long turned indigo by the time the girls climbed the stairs. Lytavis's room looked almost unchanged from their childhood: pale curtains sighing in the breeze, a carved headboard polished by time, blankets that still smelled faintly of jasmine and late-summer evenings.
They changed into simple nightgowns and settled into the bed facing one another, just as they had years ago when sleepovers were grand adventures and secrets were treasures to be traded under moonlight.
Tyrande tucked her hands beneath her cheek. "It feels the same," she whispered, voice soft with awe. "Like no time has passed at all."
Lytavis smiled, brushing a stray hair from her friend's face. "Some things don't change."
Out in the orchard, a nightingale called. Skye croaked from her perch above the window. Ginger padded to their door, circled twice, and lay down with a huff, guarding without crowding—as if remembering the old rhythms too.
In the soft dark, they traded their dreams the way little girls trade polished stones:
"I want to help people," Tyrande murmured. "Truly help them. Not just memorize words on a page."
"And Malfurion?" Lytavis teased gently.
Tyrande's blush glowed even in the dim. "He's kind," she said. "Gentle. And… steady."
She hesitated. "But sometimes I think I am drowning in the Temple. And he can't see it."
Lytavis reached for her hand, warm between them.
"Then breathe here," she whispered. "For as long as you need."
"And you?" Tyrande asked. "Illidan?"
A smile bloomed across Lytavis's lips—soft, secret, shining.
"He's learning how to be gentle," she said. "And I think… I think he wants to be."
Their hands remained twined between them as their murmured hopes slowed, softened, and finally drifted into sleep—two young women held safe by the walls that had always known them, and by the friendship that had never once let go.
Notes in the Margin – Lucien Ariakan
Tyrande Whisperwind arrived at our door tonight—a young woman carrying far more weight on her shoulders than someone her age should be asked to bear. The Temple shapes its novices with rigor, but I sometimes fear it forgets they are not stone to be carved, but saplings meant to grow.
Zoya saw it before I did. She always does. She gave the young woman honeycakes—her old favorite, and in that small act Tyrande seemed to breathe for the first time in years.
I watched her settle at our table—uncertain at first, then slowly warmed by food, by quiet conversation, by the easy rhythm of a household that does not demand perfection. She laughed. Just once. But it was real.
Lytavis watches her with the same protective tenderness she once reserved for injured kestrels or stray fox kits. She has always been this way—heart-first, steadying others before they realize they are falling.
And Tyrande trusts her. I could see her soften when Lytavis nudged her foot beneath the table, and when her gaze brightened when I asked about her studies.
These two have been joined at the heart since childhood. Time has not altered it.
Later, when they retired to Lytavis's room, I passed by their door and heard the murmured cadence of old habits—whispered confidences, shared breaths, a friendship woven in threads even the Temple cannot sever.
It soothed something in me to know Tyrande found rest here.
And it strengthened something, too, to see my daughter tending the people she loves with such quiet devotion.
May Elune grant them both the space to grow into the women they are becoming.
May the world be gentle a while longer.
And may this villa, for however long they need it, remain a place where burdens soften and young hearts remember how to breathe.