The courtyard of Blooming Brews shimmered with afternoon light. Glass teapots caught the sun, steam rising in delicate ribbons that smelled faintly of jasmine and honey. Lytavis sat with Tyrande, Malfurion, and Illidan beneath the ivy-draped trellis, the table scattered with scones, crumbs, and quiet laughter.
It was a rare kind of peace—the kind found only in still places between storms. Tyrande was teasing Malfurion about spilling tea on his scrolls; Illidan, for once, actually laughed.
Then movement near the entrance drew Lytavis's attention. A figure stood there—robes rumpled, violet hair a touch unkempt, his composure too careful to be real.
"Jace!" she called, half-rising before she realized it. "I didn't know you were back from Zin-Azshari."
He turned, managing a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've been back a few weeks."
She motioned him over instantly. "You remember Tyrande. This is Illidan, and his brother Malfurion."
Illidan inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment. Malfurion gave a courteous nod. Jace returned both gestures with equal measure—three men taking the measure of one another without a single word spoken.
"Join us?" Lytavis offered, already signaling for another cup.
Jace hesitated. His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel before he said, carefully, "We just received word from Zin-Azshari."
His voice faltered once, then steadied.
"Lord-Magister Darkrune and his apprentice, Aydris Starscribe, were killed. A misfire during an experiment with the Well."
The table went still. Even the teapots seemed to hold their breath.
Illidan's hand tightened around his cup. Tyrande's inhale caught and stilled. Malfurion's shoulders rose, then eased in quiet sympathy. Somewhere in the courtyard, even the sparrows fell silent.
Lytavis stood without thinking, crossing to Jace. "Jace," she whispered, her arms already around him before his composure could crumble. He froze, then returned the embrace—one hand gripping her shoulder as though anchoring himself there.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured. "He was a good man. I know how much he meant to you."
He nodded against her hair, then drew back, eyes faintly wet though his voice stayed steady. "Thank you. I should speak with the Magisters—see if I can transfer my apprenticeship."
"Take care of yourself," she said gently.
He managed a ghost of a smile, bowed to the others, and left.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Tyrande, ever unfiltered, tilted her head.
"You went on a date with him once, didn't you?"
Malfurion nearly choked on his scone.
Lytavis shot her a warning look sharp enough to cleave stone. "Once. And it wasn't… that kind of thing."
"I didn't say it was," Tyrande replied, all innocence and raised brow.
Illidan said nothing at all. But his jaw tightened, his hands folded too precisely around his cup. A subtle thing, but Lytavis saw it immediately—saw and understood.
She reached across the table and brushed her fingers against his wrist. A touch of reassurance, quiet and sure.
When Tyrande reminded them about the Temple festival the next evening, Lytavis rose. Illidan stood with her, and together they stepped out into the cooling light.
The city hummed softly beneath the sunset, lanterns just beginning to flicker awake. They walked in silence for a while before Lytavis said, gently, "You were very quiet."
Illidan exhaled through his nose—a humorless sound. "It wasn't my place to speak."
"To comfort a friend?"
His gaze shifted to her—sharp gold, but softened around the edges. "No. To mind that he held you that way."
She stopped, turning fully toward him. "You think I shouldn't have?"
"No," he said quickly. "I think I… understood it too well. That's what unsettled me."
His mouth tightened. "He looked at you like someone remembering a name he wished he hadn't forgotten."
Her expression softened, warm as dusk settling over the city. "It was before you, Illidan. Just one evening. Nothing more."
He nodded once, but his silence lingered a heartbeat too long.
She stepped closer, close enough that her cloak brushed his forearm. "You don't have to compete with ghosts," she said softly. "You're not in his past."
Her fingers slid into his.
"You're in my present."
His breath left him in a quiet, humbled rush. Slowly, he turned her hand and let his thumb trace the curve of her knuckles.
They walked the rest of the way in silence—not distant, but easy. By the time they reached the villa gate, the last of the sunset burned gold against the orchard walls, and the quiet between them felt like something newly understood, newly held, newly safe.