The Temple gardens were still in the early light, the kind of gentle stillness that made every leaf seem to breathe. Dawn slipped through the boughs of the moonlilies, brushing them into soft silver waves that shivered whenever the breeze touched them. Lytavis walked the stone path with steady purpose, her satchel bumping lightly against her hip, her list neatly folded between her fingers.
She paused at each alcove in the infirmary wing—checking herbs grown in the Temple's garden, selecting bandages cut and rolled by careful hands, selecting small vials of tincture from the apothecary cabinet.
She turned to leave, already thinking ahead to her morning rounds, when a soft voice—familiar as moonlight—drifted from beneath the willow-arch.
"Lytavis?"
Tyrande stood framed in the green-gold veil of branches, pale-gray novice robes falling in clean lines to her feet. Her braid caught the morning light like spun starlight, but her blue eyes… her eyes were bright only in a way that made their weariness more obvious. Shadows pooled faintly beneath them, smudges earned from too many late nights and too little sleep.
Lytavis slowed, her smile blooming warm as she approached. "Studying hard again?"
Tyrande tried to sound exasperated, but her sigh betrayed her. "There is always more to learn. Scripture. Meditations. Revisions." She rubbed at her temple, wincing. "If I listen hard enough, I can still hear Sister Tyratha telling me I am behind on my recitations."
Lytavis tilted her head, studying her the way she would an expectant mother who insisted her aches were nothing. "You're exhausted."
Tyrande opened her mouth to argue—then closed it again, shoulders sagging. Her nod was tiny, fragile. "I think—" Her voice thinned. "I think I may have forgotten what rest feels like."
Warm concern unfolded in Lytavis's chest like a hand opening. "Then come stay at the villa. A few days." Her tone was soft but steady as rain. "Quiet. Actual sleep. Min'da's cooking. You need it."
Tyrande blinked at her, owlish and startled, like no one had offered her kindness in weeks. "I… could do that?"
"You can," Lytavis said gently. "And you will."
A breath escaped Tyrande—not weary this time, but relieved. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I would like that."
"Good." Lytavis squeezed her arm. "Speak to Sister Tyratha. Pack your satchel for a few days. I'll finish my rounds and meet you here at mid-afternoon."
"You're sure your parents won't mind?"
Lytavis laughed softly. "My mother will be delighted. And my father—" A mischievous glint brightened her eyes. "I'll warn him that he'll be overruled if he tries to protest. Just don't hide his favorite quill again, and all will be well."
Tyrande's answering smile was small, but real.
"Go," Lytavis urged, nudging her gently toward the Temple halls. "Tell them you need rest. Tell them you'll return better for it."
"And you?"
"I'll send word home right now." She lifted her satchel. "Min'da will want time to bake something just for you."
That earned a soft laugh—the first Lytavis had heard from her in weeks.
They parted then: Tyrande slipping back through the pale archways of the Temple, her braid swinging tiredly behind her; and Lytavis stepping toward Evermoon Commons with her satchel, her list, and the fragile hope that she could carry her friend toward stillness.
The morning breeze stirred again, moving through the moonlilies with a sound like a silver sigh—as though the garden itself approved.