They arrived at the Temple just before midday, when the sun sat high enough to warm the marble without bleaching it. The gardens were already alive—Novices laying out cloths, Priestesses murmuring over wards, laughter drifting like birdsong through the trees.
Lytavis and Illidan joined the others beneath a willow tree, its silver-veined leaves whispering softly in the breeze. Lunch was simple—flatbread, fresh fruit, cheese, cool tea poured into shallow cups that caught the light.
Tyrande sat beside Malfurion, radiant as ever, her shoulder brushing his when she laughed. Across from them, Sister Tyratha observed the gathering with serene approval, while Maiev Shadowsong stood at the edge of the circle—present, watchful, arms folded, eyes already cataloguing exits and sightlines. Cyra Ashwood leaned back on her hands, posture relaxed but alert, the way seasoned calm always was.
It was… peaceful. The kind of peace that felt deliberate.
Lytavis had just reached for another piece of fruit when she noticed movement at the edge of the garden path.
"Jace?" she said, surprise bright in her voice.
He approached with that careful composure she recognized immediately—robes neat but not pristine, expression polite but worn thin at the edges. He inclined his head in greeting to the group.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said.
"Not at all," Tyrande replied warmly. "Please—join us."
Jace did, settling across from Illidan. For a brief moment, Illidan's shoulders tensed—not much, just enough that Lytavis felt it through him. Without thinking, she slipped her fingers into his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
Illidan glanced at her, surprised. Then—subtly—relaxed.
"I heard Elune'shalora preparations had begun," Jace said. "I thought I might offer… an idea."
Tyrande's eyes lit immediately. "I love ideas."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Jace's mouth. "When I was in Zin-Azshari, one of the Magisters hosted a festival for his twin daughters. He made it snow—just for the afternoon. They went sledding. Built snowmen. It was…" He paused, voice softening. "Joyful."
He looked around the garden. "I thought the children of Suramar might enjoy something similar."
Tyrande clasped her hands together, utterly delighted. "Oh, I would enjoy that."
Jace's gaze shifted—to Illidan. "It's a simple spell. Elegant. I could teach it to you, if you're interested."
Illidan didn't even pretend to consider it.
"Yes."
The word came out sharp with intent. His eyes had already lit, mind clearly racing ahead of the theory.
Cyra straightened. "Snow magic in the Temple gardens isn't nothing," she said carefully.
Jace nodded. "Which is why we'll keep it contained. Minimal resonance. No lingering cold."
Cyra studied them for a moment longer, then gestured toward the far corner of the garden. "There's a section there with reinforced wards. You can work there."
Illidan was already on his feet.
Jace rose as well, already explaining the mechanics of the spell as they walked, Illidan leaning in, utterly absorbed.
Maiev watched them go.
Tyrande turned to her. "I don't expect any trouble beyond the usual festival excitement."
Maiev nodded once. "I'll keep the standard measures in place."
And then—to Lytavis's mild surprise—she followed Cyra, Illidan, and Jace toward the garden's edge.
Tyrande turned back to the table, clapping her hands softly. "All right. Sister Tyratha—would you mind covering the first aid booth?"
"Of course," the priestess replied serenely.
"Lytavis, you'll do face painting?"
Lytavis smiled. "Happily."
"Malfurion," Tyrande added, turning to him, "perhaps you could tell the children stories?"
Malfurion brightened. "I'd like that."
Tyrande beamed. Lytavis and Sister Tyratha exchanged a look—fond, knowing, faintly amused.
They finished lunch at an unhurried pace, then rose together, drifting toward the corner of the garden where magic was beginning to hum.
By the time they arrived, the air had changed—cooler, charged, expectant. Illidan stood with sleeves rolled, utterly focused, Jace speaking low beside him, Maiev observing with the patience of a hawk.
Then—softly at first—snow began to fall.
Not heavy. Not cold. Just enough.
It caught in Illidan's dark hair and melted there, vanished almost as soon as it touched him. Lytavis watched his expression shift—focus loosening into something quieter, something unguarded—as laughter rose nearby, bright and unrestrained.
Elune'shalora had begun.