Tyrande's final morning at the villa began with the warm scent of bread baking through the halls and birdsong drifting from the orchard beyond the windows. The light was pale and golden—a slow sunrise that seemed to stretch itself gently across the floors, as if reluctant to wake them too quickly.
Illidan arrived before breakfast. His boots were dusty, his hair wind-tossed, and he carried the faint air of someone who had hurried and pretended he hadn't. The moment he saw Lytavis, his expression softened—not dramatically, but in that quiet way that belonged only to her.
He brushed a kiss to her lips—brief, warm, familiar—then greeted Tyrande and Zoya with the politeness reserved just for them. Without further delay, he vanished into Lucien's study, his steps a touch quicker than necessary.
Tyrande raised a brow. "He's early."
"He always is," Lytavis said, though her cheeks warmed in a way that suggested she didn't mind in the slightest.
The morning drifted seamlessly into baking—Elise setting them up with bowls, spoons, honey, flour, and little jars of spices that perfumed the air with cinnamon, ginger, and something secret that Zoya would never tell, (its cardamom). Tyrande rolled up her sleeves and moved with practiced confidence, her hands steady, her rhythm sure.
"I'd like to work in the Temple kitchens sometimes," she said as she folded the batter. "When my studies allow. I miss this. It feels… grounding."
Zoya nodded approvingly. "You should. Your honeycakes are divine – Elune herself would thank you."
Their companionable conversation filled the kitchen, a warm counterpoint to the crackle of the hearth.
When the honeycakes cooled, they slipped outside with fresh cups of tea, settling into the soft grass beneath the arbor vines. Ginger nosed her way over, accepted a pet from Tyrande, and planted herself at their feet with the self-satisfaction of someone who believed she owned the entire villa.
The air smelled faintly of jasmine and warm stone. The world felt slow. Safe.
Later, they wandered down to the hot springs behind the villa, steam curling up to greet them. The water was warm, the stones smooth beneath their fingers.
"Do you remember when you tried to bathe Whisper in here?" Tyrande asked, her eyes sparkling mischief.
Lytavis groaned immediately. "Whisper was terrified of water. She launched herself out of the pool, nearly drowned me, and then hid in the orchard for hours."
"And I tried to fill the whole spring with bubbles," Tyrande said, trying—and failing—to look solemn.
"You nearly succeeded," Lytavis shot back. "Relith had to drag you out by your braid."
They dissolved into laughter until their sides ached and steam wrapped them like drifting silver ribbons. It felt like being children again—before the Temple duties, before apprenticeships, before the weight of futures pressing on them.
Just two girls in warm water, laughing until they forgot why life was ever heavy.
Dinner was warm and simple —soft bread and a rabbit stew with root vegetables from the garden that Elise had been perfecting since the dawn of time. Lanterns glowed softly, casting gold over their conversations.
When the stars rose, Lytavis and Illidan walked Tyrande back toward the Temple. The night was crisp and clear, the moon a pale shard overhead.
At the gate, Tyrande pulled Lytavis into a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. I didn't realize how badly I needed this."
"Anytime," Lytavis murmured into her hair. "You always have a place with me."
Illidan stepped forward next—not clumsy, not shy, but almost ceremonial in his gentleness. He took Tyrande's hand, bowed slightly, and kissed her knuckles in farewell. Respectful. Steady. Sweet.
Tyrande bowed her head in return, eyes soft, then slipped inside the Temple gates, disappearing into the moonlit courtyard.
Illidan offered his arm to Lytavis. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, and together they walked back through the Evermoon-lit streets, night settling around them like a benediction whispered by old gods.
Athelan,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I write to you on behalf of a dear friend—Tyrande Whisperwind, a novice of the Temple of Elune. Her duties and studies have weighed heavily on her of late, and I fear she has forgotten the simple peace that comes from fresh air and quiet steps on forest paths.
A few days at my family's villa restored some measure of ease to her, but she needs more than rest. She needs time on the hunt—something that belongs to her alone, something steady and grounding.
If you would be willing to teach her, even for a few lessons, I believe it would do her great good. She has instinct, and a steady hand when she remembers to breathe.
Please send any costs directly to me.
Whatever the price, it is worth peace for my dearest friend.
With gratitude,
Lytavis Ariakan