The study smelled of parchment and aethril ink, warmed by the low crackle of the brazier. Lucien's quill moved in its steady, meticulous rhythm across the page, a soft counterpoint to the hush of the room. He did not look up until the door creaked.
Illidan lingered on the threshold longer than he should have, palms damp despite the cool air. He had mastered arcane equations, recited flawless incantations, bent threads of magic until they sang beneath his will… yet this—speaking one simple question to the man at the desk—set his pulse hammering.
"Lucien," he said at last, the word emerging rougher than intended.
Lucien raised his brows and gestured him in. "Illidan. Come."
Illidan obeyed. He set his satchel carefully beside the desk, as though the books inside required gentling. The silence stretched until Lucien capped his quill and folded his hands atop the parchment, expression patient and expectant.
"I…" Illidan began, jaw clenching. He had rehearsed this countless times. But the words snagged, tangled, caught.
"You know I have long studied under Magister Thalendris Darkgrove."
Lucien inclined his head, gaze steady but unreadable.
"He is brilliant," Illidan admitted, "but reviled. To claim him is to invite contempt. I endure it because there is much to learn—but when my apprenticeship ends…"
He drew a tight breath. Forced himself to meet Lucien's eyes.
"When it ends, I would ask—if it would not dishonor your House—that I might claim apprenticeship under you. Formally. Publicly."
The words fell into the quiet like a stone into still water.
Illidan held Lucien's gaze, though every instinct urged him to look away.
Lucien regarded him for a long, weighted moment—measuring not the question but the heart behind it. Then the scholar's severity softened, replaced by the father who had watched this young man walk through his orchard, his home, his daughter's life, step by uncertain step.
"Then you claim it," he said simply. "Apprenticeship is not ink and quills. It is trust. And you have mine."
Illidan's breath left him in a rush he hadn't realized he was holding.
Lucien rose, circled the desk, and set a firm hand on his shoulder. "You carry fire, yes—but discipline as well. And affection, though you try to hide it." His gaze flicked briefly toward the hall where Lytavis's laughter drifted faintly. "I see greatness in you, Illidan. More than you believe of yourself. And I see where your heart rests. That is no dishonor to my House."
His hand tightened, warm and steady.
"It is an honor."
Illidan bowed his head—not in subservience, but to hide the sudden heat in his eyes.
"Then… I am yours," he said, raw and unpolished but true.
Lucien squeezed his shoulder once, grounding.
"You always were."
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Illidan came to me today with the bearing of a man facing judgment, though no such trial awaited him. I had wondered when the question would come—the truth has lingered between us for months, proud and unspoken.
He asked to claim apprenticeship under my name. Not as courtesy. Not convenience. He asked as one who means to belong.
I saw in him the same trembling resolve I once saw in Lytavis when she took her first patient's hand—the strange alchemy of fear and conviction that can coexist in a single heart without consuming it.
Once, I believed the boy too sharp-edged to fit within a house built on patience. I was wrong. The edges remain, yes, but they are tempered now—by discipline, by quiet affection, by the gentleness my daughter gives without thought.
He bowed his head when I told him he had my trust. I wonder if he understands what that moment revealed.
Not weakness.
Not uncertainty.
But humility in a soul forged from pride.
He is mine now, in the truest sense: not possession, but promise.
And I will see him made worthy of it.