By midafternoon, the Temple gardens had become something other than themselves.
Snow drifted lazily through the air, catching sunlight in soft, prismatic sparks. It clung to the boughs of the willows, dusted the marble paths, softened Suramar into something gentle and playful. The cold never bit—only kissed, leaving cheeks pink and laughter quick.
Children arrived first, as they always did. Novices' younger siblings, acolytes' charges, Temple attendants ushering wide-eyed little ones into the garden as if afraid the magic might vanish if they moved too quickly.
It did not.
A delighted shriek went up as the first snowball flew—wild, poorly aimed, and immediately answered by three more.
Lytavis laughed outright, skirts hitched carefully as she knelt beside a low table laden with paints. Silver, blue, soft violets and whites—moons and stars and crescent patterns sketched gently onto eager faces.
"You're certain this washes off?" a small girl asked solemnly, eyes enormous.
"By morning," Lytavis promised. "Elune would never begrudge you your own face."
Satisfied, the child dashed off, leaving behind a faint smudge of silver on Lytavis's fingers.
Nearby, Malfurion sat cross-legged in the snow, a small semicircle of children gathered close as he told them a story about the first druids who were learning to listen to the earth instead of arguing with it. His voice was warm, patient, threaded with quiet humor. Every so often, Tyrande drifted past, laughter on her lips, snow caught in her hair like starlight.
Sister Tyratha moved calmly through the crowd, first aid supplies neatly arranged, her presence reassuring enough that very few actually needed them.
And then there was the snow.
Illidan stood at the edge of the enchanted fall, sleeves rolled, eyes alight with a brilliance that had nothing to do with spellwork now. Jace hovered nearby, offering the occasional correction—mostly unnecessary at this point.
"You're enjoying this far too much," Jace remarked dryly.
Illidan didn't look away from the swirling pattern he'd coaxed into the air. "I am refining it."
"You added variation for fun."
"That is refinement."
A snowball struck Illidan squarely in the shoulder.
He blinked.
Slowly, he turned.
Maiev Shadowsong stood several paces away, expression perfectly neutral, another snowball already forming in her hand.
"Security test," she said.
For half a heartbeat, the garden froze.
Then Illidan smiled.
It was quick, sharp, utterly delighted—and entirely his own.
The next snowball flew with far more precision.
Chaos followed.
Children scattered, shrieking with laughter. Tyrande abandoned dignity entirely, launching a snowball at Malfurion, who pretended to shield the children and was promptly hit anyway. Jace found himself dragged into the fray despite his protests, retaliating with alarming accuracy.
Lytavis watched it all from the edge of the garden, paint forgotten, heart light in her chest. She caught Illidan's eye across the snow-dusted chaos.
He hesitated—just a moment—then reached down, scooped up a handful of snow, and held it up in question.
Her answering grin was all the permission he needed.
When the snowball struck her shoulder, she gasped in mock offense, then laughed so hard she nearly dropped her paints.
She retaliated badly. Illidan dodged easily, laughing again—openly now, freely—before closing the distance between them. Snow clung to his hair, his lashes, the edge of his collar.
"You started this," she accused.
"You encouraged it," he countered, voice warm with amusement.
"Did I?"
"You held my hand," he said simply.
The words settled between them, gentle and sure.
Around them, the festival bloomed—snowmen rising crooked and proud, children racing sleds down magically smoothed slopes, voices lifted in joy that asked nothing of the future.
For one afternoon, the longest night was held at bay.
And Suramar—whole, brilliant, unbroken—laughed beneath falling snow.