The knock at the villa door came quick and sharp—the kind made by someone who didn't have the luxury of patience.
Lytavis opened it to find a boy, rain-damp, golden-eyed, and breathless.
"Lady Lytavis?" he asked.
"I'm Lytavis," she responded, already noting the tension in his shoulders, the urgency in his voice.
"My mother," he said, swallowing hard. "She's in labor. My father sent me to fetch you—he said no one else."
A beat.
"Please."
Her satchel was already in her hand.
"Show me."
The path to the Moonshadow homestead wound through thickening clouds, the sky bruising with the promise of a storm. By the time they reached the sturdy cabin tucked between ancient pines, thunder was muttering across the hills.
When they reached the door, it opened before they could knock.
Athelan stood there—tall, stern, hunter-still—but when he saw Lytavis, some of the rigid tension left his shoulders.
"She's been laboring since yesterday," he said, voice clipped with worry. "I've delivered our other children myself, but this time… something is wrong."
"Take me to her."
He guided her to the back room, where Velissa lay pale and exhausted, sweat darkening her hairline. Even through pain, she managed a faint smile.
"Lytavis."
Lytavis squeezed her hand briefly.
"Let's see what's happening."
It took only moments to understand: the swell of her belly, the pattern of her breath, the way her body had stalled.
"Twins," Lytavis murmured. "And one of them stubborn. We'll help them along."
Outside, thunder cracked—the storm's first warning.
Her training took over.
She guided Velissa into a better position, eased her breathing, coaxed her body back into motion. Slowly—like a wheel catching—the labor shifted.
The first child came quickly: a girl with a piercing, healthy cry.
Athelan's hands trembled as he took her.
"Callysta," he whispered. "Our Callysta."
But the second child resisted—breech, turned wrong, dangerous.
Fear flickered sharp in Velissa's eyes.
Lytavis steadied her breath.
Remember Crysta's voice.
Remember your hands know what fear doesn't.
With patience and skill, she turned the child—inch by careful inch.
Moments later, another cry filled the cottage: softer, but stubborn enough to make herself known.
"Sheylis," Athelan breathed. "Sheylis Moonshadow."
Outside, the storm broke—rain hammering the roof, wind shaking the shutters—but inside the room, everything was quiet relief.
When Lytavis stepped back into the main room, the scent of venison stew and hearthfire wrapped around her. Three boys looked up—wide-eyed, anxious—until their father entered behind her with two bundled infants.
"These are my sons," Athelan said. "Aliden, Martyn, and Nathanel—who fetched you."
Nathanel flushed but managed a crooked grin.
"You must be hungry," he said, offering Lytavis a bowl of thick stew and dark bread.
She accepted, warmth easing into her bones as the boys clamored with excitement over their sisters.
She stayed for hours—long after the storm's rage softened, long after Velissa drifted into well-earned sleep.
When she finally stepped back into the sitting room, ready to take her leave, Athelan was waiting by the door.
He inclined his head—a gesture of respect rarely given.
"You saved them," he said simply. "Both of them. And Velissa… she's resting because of you."
Lytavis shook her head. "She did the work. I only—"
"You answered when my son came to your door," Athelan said firmly. "And that is a thing I do not forget."
He paused, then added more quietly:
"As for your letter—I will train Tyrande Whisperwind myself. She needs fresh air and space to breathe. You saw that. I'll give her what peace I can."
A breath.
"And send the bill? No. Consider it a return of kindness owed."
His eyes warmed—just slightly, but unmistakably.
"You're welcome at this home any time."
Nathanel walked her home, lanterns glinting off rain-wet leaves. The path was quiet, washed clean by the passing storm.
And Lytavis knew she would remember this night—
not for the thunder,
nor the rain,
but for the moment two new lives came safely into the world…
…and for the unexpected grace of being welcomed into a family bound to her now by something wordless and real.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
I could not help but think of another storm tonight - the night she was born.
The rain had come in sheets then, fierce as a war-host, lashing against the stone of our villa until even I wondered if the walls might crack. Zoya labored long and hard, and the thunder seemed to time itself to her cries. When at last the storm broke, it left behind a daughter: small, fierce, eyes wide open as if she had been waiting for the world.
Now another storm has passed, and I read of her steady hands delivering two girls into life. The symmetry does not escape me. The storm seems to herald her always - not to break her, but to mark her.
Lytavis does not falter. She never has.
There is a thread that runs through her days, a promise I glimpsed first when I held her against the thunder all those years ago: storms may rage, but my Little Star burns steady.
And it is by her light that others find their way home.