Illidan arrived at the villa just as the first sunlight touched the orchard. A basket swung from his hand, heavy with offerings: lemon and moonberry muffins for Zoya, pear fritters for Lucien, and tucked carefully beneath the cloth, cinnamon rolls still warm with a small pot of cream cheese frosting.
Zoya answered the door, hair loose from its morning braid, eyes soft with surprise. "Illidan? You're early."
He shifted the basket forward, awkward but resolute. "I thought… breakfast."
Her smile was sharp and knowing. She pulled the cloth back just enough to see the cinnamon rolls. "Ah. For Lytavis."
He inclined his head, but Zoya's tone gentled as she added, "She was summoned before dawn. A birth, near Evermoon Terrace. You're welcome to wait."
Illidan's heart dipped. He had planned to steal her away for the day, but instead he only said, "Then I'll wait."
Lucien emerged from his study, spectacles perched low on his nose. "If you're waiting, you may as well learn. But first, breakfast."
They ate together at the long table, the villa warm with the smell of muffins and rolls. Zoya hummed over her tea, Lucien muttered appreciatively about the fritters, and for once Illidan let the silence between bites feel like belonging instead of punishment.
Afterward, Zoya set down her cup and gave him a sly look. "If you're waiting, perhaps you'll lend a hand in the garden. These herbs don't trim themselves."
Illidan arched a brow, but rose anyway. He followed her to the beds where rosemary and sage grew thick. She handed him shears without ceremony. He trimmed clumsily at first, nicking a sprig too low. Zoya corrected him with a gentle hand on his wrist, guiding the angle. No sharp word, no rebuke—only quiet instruction. He adjusted, slower, steadier, until Zoya gave a small nod as though marking him with approval.
When they returned, Lucien had an old tome spread across the table. "A problem in translation," he said, tapping the margin. Illidan leaned in, eyes sharp, forgetting himself in the cadence of theory and counter-theory. He caught the misstep at last, satisfaction quickening through him. Lucien's smile was brief but genuine.
Then Zoya returned with a basket of pears and the announcement: "Another pair of hands would not go amiss." Illidan sighed but rose again, following her to the orchard. By the time they returned, sweat dampened his hairline, but Zoya only gave him another of those knowing, half-amused looks.
The day blurred into rhythm: garden, theory, orchard, lesson. At last, as twilight brushed the villa, Elise laid the table for supper—and without even asking, set four places. Illidan hesitated in the doorway until Lucien gestured him in.
They ate venison, roasted roots, and rosemary bread, with wine poured into shallow cups. Conversation wove steady around him: threads of orchard lore, temple anecdotes, arcane musings. Illidan spoke when asked, listened more than he ever thought himself capable. Once, as Zoya described the difficulty of cultivating strawberries near the orchard, he found himself saying quietly, "The roots cling better when the soil is turned shallow first." The words surprised him, but Lucien inclined his head, and Zoya offered a faint, approving smile.
When the meal was done, Zoya slipped away with the dishes, leaving Lucien and Illidan still at the table.
"You've a sharp mind," Lucien said quietly. "But sharper still is knowing when to wield it—and when to listen."
Illidan inclined his head, the words sinking deep.
It was late when the door finally opened. Lytavis stepped in, hair escaping its braid, robes rumpled with a streak of blood on the sleeve. Exhaustion lined her eyes, but her smile bloomed the moment she saw him.
"I ruined our plans," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
He shook his head, already rising. "You're safe. That's enough."
Her parents made their quiet exit—Zoya brushing her daughter's cheek, Lucien murmuring a goodnight. Then the two of them were alone.
"Stay?" Lytavis asked softly, touching his hand. "I missed you."
So he stayed. They curled together on the sofa, her head on his shoulder as she spoke haltingly about the long labor, the new mother's relief, the first cry of the child. Before long her words slowed, her breath evened, and she dozed against him. Illidan sat still, unwilling to wake her, unwilling to let go.
The villa hushed around them. Firelight guttered low. His own eyes drifted closed.
He woke at dawn to the sound of footsteps. Lucien stood in the doorway, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
"It isn't…" Illidan began, voice rough. "I mean, it's not what it looks like…"
Lucien raised a hand, stopping him. His voice was calm, steady as old stone. "It's exactly what it looks like." He paused, then added with quiet weight, "And it looks like my daughter has chosen well."
Illidan froze, words failing him. Heat pricked behind his eyes—unfamiliar and fierce.
Lucien gave the smallest nod, then left him there, sunlight spilling through the windows, Lytavis still asleep with her head in his lap.
Illidan sat motionless, the weight of her trust and her father's words settling into him like something he had never thought himself worthy of.
For once, the world did not feel hostile.
For once, he could feel its shape: not sharp, not fleeting, but steady as the dawn.