The observatory at Tel'anor rose above the treetops like a crown of silver and glass, its great dome gleaming in the late light. As the carriage passed through the arched gates, Lytavis leaned forward, unable to stop the breath that escaped her. She had read of the place often—its telescopes, its archives, its gardens planted to mirror constellations—but nothing had prepared her for the sheer grace of it.
Lord-Magister Lynath Starwhisper stood waiting at the entrance, his robes deep blue, his bearing as serene as the night sky itself. When he saw them descend—Illidan, Lytavis, and Lucien—his eyes brightened with genuine delight.
"Lucien," he said warmly, bowing to Lucien. "It honors me to welcome you back. I confess, when your Little Star mentioned you, I dared not hope you would join them."
Lucien inclined his head, pleased. "It has been many years since I last looked upon Tel'anor. I could not resist the invitation."
"Then you will not regret it." Starwhisper gestured, and the great doors opened as if to the breath of the heavens themselves. "Come, old friend. Let me show you what we keep here."
The tour wound through halls of white stone veined with pale blue and silver. Charts and globes lined the walls, delicate illusions of shifting constellations drifting overhead. They paused before lenses the size of wagon wheels and polished mirrors that seemed to drink in light even before the sun had set.
Starwhisper spoke with a scholar's joy, but his words never fell into dryness. He explained the alignments of stars and moons, the old theories of convergence, and even Lucien's work—still studied, still admired. Lucien listened intently, and now and again offered quiet commentary, the two men sparking against each other's minds with the ease of equals.
At last they came to the upper chamber beneath the great dome. The roof had already opened to the twilight sky, revealing the first glimmering points of night. The air was cool, hushed with a reverence Lytavis had only ever felt in the Temple.
"Sit with me a while, Lucien," Starwhisper urged. "We have much to speak of."
Lucien's eyes lit with the eagerness of a man returned to his element. The two Magisters settled into carved chairs near a table strewn with charts, their conversation already tumbling into theories and counter-theories.
Starwhisper poured a measure of mulled wine from the silver carafe, the rising steam carrying the faint scent of citrus and cinnamon. He set the vessel down gently, as though the topic required a softer hand.
"Tell me," he began, settling opposite Lucien, "have you heard of Vandryl Darkrune's death?"
Lucien's expression darkened with quiet gravity.
"Yes. A mishap at the Well of Eternity. Word reached Suramar a few weeks ago. A miscast spell, was it not?"
Starwhisper inclined his head.
"A misfire. Violent and sudden. His apprentice—Aydris Starscribe—was channeling the spell when the ward ruptured. Both were killed instantly."
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"A tragedy. Two lives lost to the arrogance of the Well."
"Yes," Starwhisper murmured. "And it leaves behind another apprentice—Jace Tisserand. Talented, diligent, and now… without a House. He seeks a new master before his studies fall into disarray."
Lucien looked faintly surprised, then thoughtful. "Ah, Jace. Yes, I know the lad. He and my daughter grew up together. I've read some of his early theses. Sharp mind, quick to pattern, never content with easy answers."
"Much like his would-be master," Starwhisper said, a small smile ghosting across his face. His gaze drifted toward the platform, where Lytavis and Illidan stood beneath the open dome, heads bent close over the telescope's glass. "I understand you've recently returned from retirement?"
Lucien's laugh was quiet, self-deprecating. "Not quite. My daughter has a habit of collecting strays. This one happened to be a handsome Kal'dorei male with a profound interest in her. I saw… something of myself in him. Something wild that needed tempering. So I offered to teach him."
Starwhisper regarded him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Then you'll understand why I ask what I do."
Lucien's mouth curved—he'd already guessed the question. "You want to know if House Ariakan will take in Jace Tisserand."
"I do," said Starwhisper simply. "He deserves a place that will shape him, not consume him. And I suspect you still have room in your halls for one more mind worth saving."
Lucien followed his gaze to where Lytavis and Illidan laughed quietly together under the stars. "Yes," he said at last, voice warm with certainty, "I'll take him. House Ariakan will take him."
Starwhisper's smile deepened, the lines at his eyes softening. "Then the stars choose wisely, as they always have."
Lytavis and Illidan were free to wander the platform, where the telescopes pointed like spears of glass toward the sky. She tugged his sleeve, her eyes shining. "Come. Look with me."
He allowed her to guide him to one of the lenses, bending so she could adjust it. She set her eye to the glass first, gasping softly. "Illidan—it's so clear. As if you could reach out and pluck the stars from the dark."
He leaned to take her place, and for a moment the cool logic of his mind fell silent. Through the glass, the heavens burned—sharp, eternal, impossibly distant. He drew back slowly, meeting her gaze. She was radiant in the starlight, her delight as luminous as any constellation.
"They are beautiful," he said at last, voice low. "Yet I find I am looking at you."
She laughed quietly, nudging his shoulder with hers. "That is only because you have not learned to look properly."
They stood together beneath the dome, the voices of her father and Lord Starwhisper murmuring in the background. And for Lytavis, it felt as though past and future had converged here: her father respected, Illidan steady at her side, and the stars spread out above them, infinite and waiting—as if the night itself had opened a door.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Lynath and I spoke long after the apprentices had gone to their rooms. We spoke of loss—his of Darkrune, mine of time. We spoke of legacy, of how every student we take shapes the echo of what we leave behind. When he asked if I would take Jace Tisserand into my House, I agreed without hesitation. It felt less a decision than a continuation of something already begun.
That evening, I watched my daughter lean over the telescope beside Illidan, who has slowly become my own. The light on her face was the same light that once filled my study—the glow of discovery, of belonging. I realized then that I was no longer merely a teacher of the arcane. I was a keeper of bridges—between generations, between Houses, between hearts.
The stars of Tel'anor have a way of revealing truths long hidden. That night, they revealed this: every lesson I have ever taught has led me here. And the next great chapter will not be mine, but theirs.