In a narrow chamber tucked back in Suramar's winding streets, Lytavis leaned close over the bed.
The child came red-faced and loud, fists balled, lungs declaring his place in the world.
Zelinda Dawnreaver sobbed with joy, clutching the tiny boy to her chest. Mattis, his father, hovered close, wide-eyed, trembling—pride and bewilderment breaking across his face like dawn.
"Vyrathis," he said, voice unsteady but certain. "We're calling him after Zelinda's father."
Lytavis smiled, the warmth in her eyes outshining the soft glow of the lanterns. "A strong name," she murmured, steadying them both as she checked the child's breathing, his color, the fragile pulse that fluttered like a bird against her fingers.
"Strong heart," she added, more to herself than to them.
Zelinda laughed through her tears. "He'll need one, if he takes after his father."
Mattis flushed and bent to kiss her forehead, and Lytavis looked away, giving them that small, private miracle of first moments. She had chosen this path—not battle, not court, not ceremony—but this: life, in its rawest form. The work that left her sleeves damp, her back aching, her heart full.
She had never been so certain, or so happy.
When she finally stepped outside, the world seemed to hum in answer. The city's morning had unfurled while she worked—light spilling across the curved rooftops, the faint music of fountains echoing from the square. Her hands still smelled faintly of chamomile and new life.
She paused on the threshold, drawing a slow breath of cool air, then murmured a brief blessing under her breath—the old words she always used to guard the mother and child she left behind.
Only then did she sling her satchel over her shoulder and start for home, her steps unhurried, her heart full. The world felt quieter after a birth—like it, too, was catching its breath.
The front door closed behind her with a soft click, and Lytavis let the morning air slip from her lungs. The scents of the city—incense, stone, sun-warmed water—gave way to rosemary and rising yeast, richer and far more comforting.
"In the kitchen if you're hoping to be fed," Zoya called before Lytavis even rounded the corner.
Lytavis smiled and followed the voice. She found her mother elbow-deep in dough, sleeves rolled high, a streak of flour bold as a war-paint slash across one cheek. Elise, the housekeeper, stood with quill and parchment in hand, writing orders faster than they were spoken.
"And have Relith air out the Blue Room again," Zoya said, hands moving with quick precision. "The linens must be fresh, and make certain there's room for his books."
"It's already done," Elise replied. "Desk, chair, two bookcases. The sitting room attached is now a study. Relith nearly dropped the desk on his foot, but he survived."
Zoya sniffed as if that was the least interesting part of the morning. "Good. I'm sure you made every perfect."
Elise inclined her head and swept out with a decisive swish of her skirts.
Only then did Zoya look up and see the soft glow still clinging to her daughter—joy and exhaustion in equal measure.
"How did it go?" she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
Lytavis's smile answered before her words did. "He's beautiful. Loud as thunder. His parents named him Vyrathis."
Zoya's brows rose, impressed. "Already a force of nature, then. It's good."
Lytavis laughed, warmth pooling beneath her ribs. "He's got lungs enough for the whole city."
Zoya pressed a kiss to her temple—quick, proud. "Sit. Eat. You've done more before sunrise than your father manages all week."
"That is not true," Lucien said from the doorway, his voice all scholarly offense and no real heat. He entered with the faint scent of ink still clinging to him, his expression softening the instant his gaze found Lytavis. "Though in fairness, midwives are powered by sheer will and tea."
Lytavis leaned up to kiss his cheek. "And the occasional bowl of porridge."
"Which," Zoya said, pointing her dough-covered finger at both of them, "you will get once you're seated."
Relith appeared at the kitchen door, dust on his sleeves and a newcomer at his side. Jace Tisserand stood straight-backed, satchel in hand, eyes flicking quickly over the familiar scholars and the unfamiliar hearth.
"Mistress Zoya," Relith said with a nod. "Apprentice Tisserand has arrived."
Zoya gave no room for awkward fumbling. "Nonsense—he's not a guest, he's family now. Sit, Jace. You're just in time. The porridge is almost done."
Jace blinked. "I—thank you," he said, bowing to them all before taking the open seat between Lytavis and Lucien.
For a heartbeat, silence hovered—anticipation, newness, the brief shyness of lives converging.
Then Lytavis smiled gently. "How was the journey?"
"Short," Jace said, a little stiff, but honest. "But heavier than I expected. Eleven years is… a long time to pack away."
Lucien inclined his head, understanding. "You honor your previous House by carrying what it taught you—forward."
Some tension uncoiled from Jace's shoulders.
Zoya set a pot of porridge in front of them with triumphant finality. "Well then. Enough philosophy before tea. Eat. Talking is easier when you're not starving."
The table eased into conversation.
By the second round of tea, unfamiliar edges had begun to soften—replaced by laughter and the comfortable scrape of spoons in bowls.
Sunlight spilled across the floor, golden and wide as promise.