Lord Starwhisper's mansion gleamed with light, its high windows glowing like lanterns against the velvet night. Tonight's gathering was smaller than the grand masquerades of Suramar's nobility, but no less dazzling. This party was for apprentices—a night to mingle, to be seen, to catch the eye of those whose approval mattered.
Illidan walked at Lytavis's side, his formal apprentice's robes of deep blue crisp and carefully pressed.
Magister Thalendris Darkgrove trailed behind them with a serene pride that fooled those who didn't know him. Illidan knew better. That serenity was a mask—thin, brittle, and sharpened by ambition.
The receiving line moved slowly. Each guest bowed or curtsied before Lord-Magister Lynath Starwhisper, his black hair glimmered in the light. The weight of his position as Master of the Tel'anor Observatory lent him a gravity that made even seasoned apprentices stand straighter.
When their turn came, Illidan introduced her with quiet ceremony.
"Lord Starwhisper, may I present Lady Lytavis Ariakan."
Time folded.
She was no longer only the girl on the balcony years ago, ice-blue gown swirling beneath borrowed moonlight, mask slipping as she stumbled into a world she was never meant to enter.
She was standing before him now as herself.
Lord Lynath bowed, slower than courtesy required. His gaze lingered—not with curiosity, but with something deeper, measuring the shape of her presence rather than her face. When he took her hand, his grip was warm, steady… certain. He brushed his lips to her knuckles with deliberate care.
"Lady Lytavis," he said softly.
Nothing more. No questions. No surprise.
But in his eyes she felt it—the quiet click of recognition, like a constellation locking into place. Not remembrance, but knowing. The kind that did not need explanation.
Her breath caught.
They moved on, yet her heartbeat fluttered wildly beneath her ribs, as though some ancient thread had been drawn taut—acknowledged, but not yet named.
Later, with Illidan gone to fetch wine, she stood near a tall window where the gardens lay fragrant and dark below.
"Little Star."
The name struck like a remembered chord. She turned.
Lord Lynath stood beside her, his expression eased into something warmer than courtesy—something almost fond.
"I half thought I dreamed you that night," he said quietly. "Moonlight has a way of convincing us it invents what it merely reveals."
"You did not dream me, my lord," she replied, her voice soft but steady.
His smile deepened, pleased—not surprised. "No. I see that now." A pause, thoughtful. "You are Lucien Ariakan's daughter."
It was not a question.
"Yes," she said, pride threading her voice. "He is my father."
"As I suspected," Lynath said gently. "You carry his steadiness. The way you stand in the world—listening before shaping." His gaze drifted briefly, as if toward another sky entirely. "His work on the lunar wells remains unmatched. I still cite it. Often."
The words settled in her like a benediction. To hear her father spoken of not as history, but as continuing influence, lit something warm and fierce in her chest.
They spoke then—of leylines and convergence, of Tel'anor's lenses, of Lucien's theories refined rather than replaced. And for a while, she was neither the girl who had once stumbled into a masquerade nor the healer the Temple relied upon.
She was simply her father's daughter.
Illidan returned with two glasses of wine.
His gaze flicked between them—her flush, Lynath's closeness.
His fingers tightened once around the stems of the goblets before he schooled his expression into something like calm.
Lord Lynath inclined his head. "Should either of you find yourselves with a free evening, my observatory at Tel'anor is always open. The stars remember more than we do… and they are never fooled, Little Star."
He took her hand again. His lips lingered a heartbeat longer against her skin—long enough to stir her pulse. Long enough for Illidan to notice.
Then Lynath slipped back into the glittering crowd, as though he had left starlight in his wake.
Illidan watched him go, thoughtful, then offered her one of the goblets. His voice was low, carefully even.
"The observatory at Tel'anor. An invitation from Lord-Magister Starwhisper himself… that is no small thing."
A faint smile touched his mouth—admiring, measured.
"Impressive company you're keeping tonight."