The Observatory invitation spread through the apprentice hall like wildfire—every apprentice whispering about the chance to stand among Lord-Magister Starwhisper's vaulted domes, to see constellations inked across the sky itself.
Magister Darkgrove summoned him before he could even think of pretending otherwise.
"You," Darkgrove snapped, parchment curled like claws in his fist. "You will see to it that I am included."
Illidan kept his voice even. "The invitation was not addressed to me. It was extended to my date."
Darkgrove's eyes narrowed. "Your date?" He spat the word as if it soured his tongue. "I didn't even bother to look at her. Who is she?"
A bronze and crystal inkwell came hurtling across the desk. It bounced of Illidan's wrist, then shattered against the stone behind him. Darkgrove's face flushed deep as spilled wine.
"Who?" His voice was sharp with hunger. "Who has drawn Starwhisper's notice? Tell me her name."
Illidan's jaw tightened. He could feel her name forming—Lytavis—but something inside him recoiled. Not fear, not calculation. Something simpler. A refusal to put her name in this man's mouth.
"No."
The chair toppled as Darkgrove lunged to his feet. His voice cracked the air. "You insolent…"
Illidan didn't wait for the spell building in his hand. He turned on his heel and walked out, heart hammering, a blot of black still wet across his sleeve. He wasn't sure why he hadn't spoken her name. Only that he was glad he hadn't.
Outside, the air tasted of storm. He needed to see her. He went to the Temple first.
The Temple doors stood open, pale and quiet. Tyrande was on the steps, her expression calm, her gaze level.
"She isn't here," she said. "She's rarely here anymore." Her eyes flicked to the black stain, to the shadow forming on his wrist. She did not ask. She only turned and walked inside, gray novice robes trailing across the stone.
He decided to try the villa.
The Ariakan villa smelled of ink and jasmine, the hush of books and gardens folded together. Lucien was in his study, quill stilled over a parchment when Illidan entered.
"My lord," Illidan began, still stiff with the echo of anger. "I must speak of Magister Darkgrove."
Lucien gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Tell me."
So Illidan did: the demand, the inkwell, the bruise. And the words he had chosen. Date, not her name.
Lucien leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing—not at Illidan, but at memory.
"There was an investigation," he said quietly. "Not enough evidence to convict him, not enough for the Conclave to remove his seat. But there was enough to strip him of female apprentices forever. I was on the Conclave when the vote passed."
His gaze hardened, voice cold as mountain stone.
"He has despised me ever since. And he will take that bitterness out on any apprentice who bears my favor."
Then, softer: "You did well. Thank you."
Illidan froze. For a moment, he couldn't draw breath. The anger in Lucien's voice wasn't fire—it was stone. He knew then this was not the first cruelty. Not the last.
Then a knock at the door.
"Enter," Lucien called.
Lytavis slipped in, her braid loosened by the day. Her eyes fell first on Illidan, then the bruise dark on his wrist and the black smear across his sleeve.
"What happened?"
Illidan rose. For a moment, words refused him. Then he crossed the space, bent to her mouth, and kissed her. Only when he drew back did he answer.
"A misunderstanding," he said softly. "With Darkgrove."
And for a moment there was only her hand at his wrist, cool and steady. He knew, in that moment, that he would never speak her name in Darkgrove's presence. Some shadows were his to bear alone.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
I had wondered when Darkgrove's shadow would reach us again. Some stains never lift—not when the Conclave lacks the courage to scour them clean. I remember the hearing too well: the girl who could hardly speak above a whisper, the hollow fury in her father's eyes. There was not enough evidence to strip Darkgrove of rank, they said. Not enough to remove him entirely.
But there was enough to bar him from taking female apprentices ever again.
That compromise was our mistake. Mine most of all.
And now the young man he ridiculed, belittled, and battered with his temper stood in that same study and told him no. No posturing. No attempt to wound. Simply a refusal—clean, firm, and edged with a kind of mercy Darkgrove will never understand.
Illidan would not speak her name. He protected it as one protects a flame in a storm.
I recognized that silence for what it was: not fear, but a vow.
He has learned, as too many have learned, that once a cruel man is given a name, he will drag it through the mud until all brightness is smothered. Illidan chose to bear that shadow himself rather than let it fall upon her.
When he recounted the incident, I saw the tremor beneath his composure. Not cowardice—shock. Shock that anyone would call restraint a virtue. He has lived too long expecting punishment for defiance and never praise for discipline.
I told him he did well.
And I meant it.
Let the Magisters mutter of his temper, his pride, his restlessness. I will remember this: the moment he held his anger like a drawn bow and chose not to loose it—for her sake, not his own.
That is character.
Not power unleashed, but power commanded in service of someone else's peace.