The Ariakan villa was quiet in the early light, the scent of warm bread and tea drifting across the table. Lucien Ariakan poured a cup for his wife before turning his attention to his daughter.
"Well then, Lytavis," he asked with a smile, "how was Starwhisper's party?"
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, recalling the glitter of chandeliers and the swell of music. "It was wonderful. Apprentices from every House were there. Lord Lynath himself greeted us—and he told me that he still cites your work on the lunar wells in his lectures."
Lucien's hand stilled on the cup. For a moment he only looked at her, then he chuckled, pleased and a little surprised. "Does he now? I hadn't realized my writings still traveled that far. That is high praise indeed."
"There's more," she said, unable to hide her smile. "He invited us to visit his observatory in Tel'anor. Whenever we wish."
Lucien leaned back, impressed. "An open invitation from Starwhisper? That is no small thing. Illidan must have carried himself well for such notice to be given."
Lytavis hesitated, then looked up at her father. "Would you like to join us, when we go? I know he would be eager to speak with you."
His expression softened, pride flickering into something warmer. "Yes," he said after a thoughtful pause. "I should like that very much. To walk Tel'anor's halls again… to see the stars through his lenses."
He reached for his tea again—but did not drink. Instead, he studied her more closely.
"You know," he said gently, "Lynath has always had an eye for you."
She blinked. "For me?"
Lucien smiled faintly. "He is your moon-father, Lytavis."
Her breath caught. "My… moon-father?"
He nodded, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. "When you were born, the leylines sang louder than they should have. Not dangerously—just enough that those who listen learned to listen closely. Lynath was among them. He stood vigil the night you were born, charting the sky as the storm passed."
Lytavis stared at him, stunned. "You never told me."
"You never asked," he said softly. "And it was never meant as a burden. Only a quiet watchfulness."
Lucien smiled faintly. "He has called you that since you were an infant."
Her breath caught. "Called me what?"
"The night you were born," he said gently. "The ley-storm had barely passed. You were quiet—too quiet for a newborn—and Lynath stood with me at the window, watching the sky settle. When you finally cried, the sound carried through the Weave like a bell."
Lytavis's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
"He looked down at you," Lucien continued, "and said, 'There. The little star has found her voice.'"
The words settled into her chest, warm and unexpected.
"He never said it loudly," Lucien added. "Never claimed you. Just watched. When you were brought to gatherings as a babe, he would nod and murmur it to himself—Little Star—as if checking that you were still shining."
Lytavis swallowed. "So… he's always known."
"He's always listened," Lucien corrected softly. "There is a difference."
Silence stretched, full and gentle.
Lucien smiled. "Little Star."
The words settled into her chest with a warmth she hadn't known she was missing.
The door opened, footsteps steady in the hall. Illidan entered with a bow, his robes neat, a satchel of books slung over one shoulder. His sharp gaze flicked briefly to her before settling on Lucien with polite deference.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," Lytavis answered softly. Gathering her courage, she added, "When we go to the observatory… do you think we might bring an'da with us?"
Illidan's brows lifted, then a faint smile touched his mouth. "Yes. I think that would be an excellent idea. Lord-Magister Starwhisper would welcome the chance to speak with him."
Pleased, she rose and brushed a kiss across his lips—quick and familiar, the kind of affection he had grown accustomed to, expected even. He accepted it with quiet ease, the corners of his mouth still curved as he turned toward the study.
She watched him disappear into the wood-paneled room, then gathered her cloak and satchel. By nightfall she would be weary. But for now the morning was bright, her father's pride warmed her heart, and the shape of invitation was hers to keep.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
I had forgotten what it feels like to hear one's name spoken with admiration by a peer still active in the field. Lynath Starwhisper—now there is a man whose eyes have seen wonders I once only theorized. That he remembers my work humbles me more than I expected.
Lytavis spoke of him with the clear excitement of a true student of the heavens. It reminded me of her first telescope: the night she refused to sleep until she had counted every visible moon. I see that same fire in her still, though tempered now by purpose.
Illidan greeted me this morning with all the formality of a scholar meeting his master's equal. The boy's confidence is maturing; he is learning when silence commands more respect than speech. There is something in his manner toward her—protective, reverent—that speaks well of him.
Tel'anor… it has been years since I walked its terraces. If Starwhisper truly means to open his observatory to them, then I would see it once more. The stars do remember, as he said. They remember ambition, failure, and the fragile brilliance of those who dared to look up.
Perhaps it is time I looked up again, too.