(journal fragment, penned in Illidan's hand)
I did not leave Darkgrove's study in anger.
That surprises me still.
There was no shouting, no curse upon my name, no final need to prove myself right. Only stillness. Only the sound of glass breaking behind me and the smell of acid burning itself out.
For the first time, I did not look back.
I thought the air in Suramar would feel the same beyond his door—heavy, perfumed, cloying with pride and pretense. It didn't. It tasted clean. Alive. Mine.
I arrived at the villa with nothing to offer but ink-stained hands and a heart too wary to name its own fear.
Lucien welcomed me with calm certainty. Zoya gave me breakfast.
Lytavis gave me her hand.
Darkgrove called me useless.
Lucien called me son.
I am beginning to understand which word holds power.
There is something strange about peace. It feels fragile, like glass still cooling after the fire. I keep expecting someone to break it—to remind me that I do not belong here.
But then Lytavis laughs, or Zoya fusses, or Lucien asks my opinion instead of ordering it, and I remember:
This is what belonging sounds like.
I have spent years learning how to shape spells.
Perhaps now, I will learn how to stay still.
Perhaps that, too, is a kind of mastery.