The Ariakan villa lay hushed beneath the storm. Rain lashed against the shutters, thunder rolling across the orchard. Skye shifted on her swing with a sharp flick of feathers, unsettled by the wind.
Behind the closed door of Lucien's study, however, the storm was not only outside.
Zoya leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, gaze sharp enough to make her husband set down his quill. "You like him."
Lucien blinked. "He listens. He works hard. That alone sets him apart from half the students Suramar sends me."
"That isn't what I asked."
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes. I like him. He has a keen mind and a thirst for knowledge. It could burn him, but… tempered, he may do great things."
Zoya's smile tilted, sly. "He's already doing great things, if you ask Lytavis."
Lucien looked up sharply, but she only raised her brows.
"You've watched them. Anyone with eyes can see it." She shifted, deliberately casual. "The question is, have you asked him his intentions?"
Lucien's quill clattered against the inkwell. "Intentions?"
"With our daughter," she clarified, unruffled.
The words struck like thunder. Lucien sat back as though bracing against it. "No. I haven't asked. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because he is young. Because she is young. Because…"
"Because you don't want to imagine what's already plain." Her smile turned faintly wicked. "And I don't think they've lain together yet."
Lucien spluttered, ears flushing red. "Elune's grace, woman! Must you…"
"Yes," she said sweetly. "I must."
"No father wants to think of his baby girl…"
"No mother wants to either," Zoya cut in, "but avoiding the question doesn't stop time. Better you ask what he intends now, before matters… progress."
Lucien rubbed at his temple, muttering what might have been a prayer. At last, with a reluctant exhale, he nodded. "Very well. I'll ask."
Illidan arrived not long after, rain still clinging to his cloak and the scent of baked goods clutched in his hands: muffins, fritters, cinnamon rolls. Zoya accepted them with a pleased arch of her brow, vanishing toward the kitchen.
Lucien gestured him in. The lamps burned low, the storm rattling faintly at the windows. As always, the lesson began: arcane sigils, lines of power across the page, the hum beneath the leyline. Illidan bent over his work, golden eyes sharp, hunger for knowledge plain.
An hour passed in quills and ink before Lucien set his aside. "Illidan," he began, voice steady.
He looked up. "Yes?"
"I must ask you something. Not about the arcane. About Lytavis."
Confusion flickered, then wariness. "Lytavis?"
"You spend much time here. With her. I would know your intentions."
Silence pressed, broken only by the storm outside. Illidan's jaw tightened.
"My intentions?"
"Yes," Lucien said. "As her father, it is my duty to ask."
Illidan exhaled hard, eyes darting away. "I am… only an apprentice. I have little to offer. No lands. No title. Nothing." His voice faltered, then steadied, low and raw. "But when I think of the future… it's her. I see her."
Lucien's brows rose, then knit. "You… see her."
"That's not what I meant." Illidan's hand clenched on the desk. "I meant—she's part of me now."
"Then why not say that plainly?"
"Because you wouldn't understand!" Illidan snapped, too quick, too sharp. The chair scraped as he shoved back from the desk, his temper spilling into the air that still smelled faintly of rain.
Before Lucien could answer, the latch clicked.
The study door opened.
Lytavis stepped in, hair freshly braided, her satchel still slung at her shoulder. The storm had passed, and she carried that same stillness with her—eyes rimmed with weariness, yet softened by a faint, quiet smile. "Dinner's ready," she said, voice even, untroubled.
Illidan's gaze flicked to her—raw, unsettled, unguarded. His mouth twisted. "I can't stay," he muttered, striding past her toward the hall.
She turned, startled. "Illidan? What…"
But his boots struck hard against the marble, the sound fading into the hush left in the storm's wake.
Lucien sat back slowly, pity and worry mingling in his eyes. And Lytavis stood in the doorway, calm after the tempest, watching after him with wide, bewildered eyes.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
I had meant to ask a question, not to start an earthquake.
Zoya will no doubt tell me the tremor was necessary, that no father can keep still when his daughter begins to love in earnest. She is, of course, correct. She usually is.
The boy's answers were raw, unguarded, and wholly unpolished—the speech of someone who has never yet learned that honesty and composure are not the same thing. He spoke as if every word cost him pain, as if the simple act of admitting feeling might break him. Perhaps it nearly did.
When his temper rose, I saw what worries me most: brilliance and fire without the confidence to trust either. He burns too quickly. Yet beneath that flame is something I cannot dismiss. Devotion, not ambition. For all his sharpness, there was no deceit in him.
He fled before I could steady the moment. I regret that. I should have said more—that anger does not erase respect, that fear does not make him unworthy. But pride silences us all in turn, and tonight it was my own.
Lytavis will not be shaken by his outburst; she has weathered storms fiercer than words. Still, I fear the boy will carry this as failure when it might have been the first honest thing he has ever spoken.
If he returns, I will listen.
If he does not, I will remember that even thunder must learn restraint before it can become rain.