Magister Darkgrove's scowl warped in the gleam of glass and steel.
"Useless," he spat, knocking over a stand of instruments. The crash rang sharp as breaking bone. "You waste my reagents, my patience—my name."
Illidan adjusted the flame beneath the alembic with deliberate care. "The reaction is correct. You can see—"
The beaker came without warning—ill-tempered violence in a flashing arc.
Illidan moved.
Glass exploded against the stone behind him. A foul, sulfurous stench rushed up—like rot dredged from a grave. The liquid hissed where it struck the floor, etching into the tiles.
He turned back slowly.
His eyes burned, not with heat but with precision.
He set down his quill. Closed the tome. Wiped the splash from his sleeve with a silent flick that made the air tremble.
Then he said, evenly, "My apprenticeship here is finished."
Darkgrove laughed—hoarse, disbelieving. "You'll crawl back within a week. There isn't a Magister in Suramar who will touch you. Not after I—"
"Lord-Magister Ariakan," Illidan cut in, voice low and absolute, "has already offered."
The words landed like a spell breaking.
Darkgrove froze—color draining from his face.
Illidan gathered his notes, his books, the quill that had always felt too fine for this place. The air around him hummed faintly as if the leylines themselves approved.
He did not look back.
When the door closed, the acid hiss of the ruined potion was the only sound left—a small, ugly echo of what used to hold him.
Outside, sunlight hit his face, clean and unfiltered.
For the first time in years, he breathed like a man unchained.
Darkgrove's shadow burned away behind him.
Ahead waited a home, a future, and a woman who smiled like starlight.
The door swung open and he stepped inside, cloak slung over one shoulder, hair tousled by the wind. The air of Suramar still clung to him—slight scent of smoke from fires, warmth from the waking streets, something sharp and bright beneath the surface: choice.
He found them gathered around the dining table—tea steaming, bread torn into generous pieces, Lytavis's laughter still lingering like a bell.
"Good morning," he said, voice low but sure.
Lytavis's smile sparked instantly. Illidan leaned down, kissed her—soft, brief, familiar—and took the seat beside her as if it had always been his.
Without preamble, he reached for the porridge, stirring in cinnamon and a healthy measure of honey. Zoya watched with amusement as he tucked in like a man who had fought for the right to breakfast.
Only when he'd swallowed did he speak plainly.
"I've left Magister Darkgrove," he said.
Lucien paused mid-sip of his tea. Jace glanced between them, brows lifting. Lytavis's hand stilled on her napkin.
Illidan continued, utterly untroubled by their surprise.
"He threw something again. A beaker. Smelled…" He wrinkled his nose, searching for the word. "Malevolent."
Lucien frowned. "Everything he does smells malevolent."
"That," Illidan said solemnly, "is true."
He lifted his spoon for another bite—calm as evening tide.
Lucien set his cup down. "Then you may transfer to me immediately, if you wish."
Illidan looked up—fire banked behind careful composure. Gratitude flickered there, quick and fierce, before pride smoothed it down.
"I would like that."
Lytavis's hand found his under the table—cool, steady fingers curling around his.
He met her gaze, all his confidence cracking just enough for her to see the relief beneath. She leaned in and kissed him lightly, a small promise pressed to the corner of his mouth.
Jace cleared his throat and looked politely at his porridge.
Zoya clapped her hands once, bright and decisive. "Well then. With both apprentices under this roof, I'll simply have to double supper. Relith, more vegetables!"
A muffled groan sounded from somewhere down the hall.
Illidan laughed—a quiet thing, surprised out of him—and the last remnants of Darkgrove's shadow melted away.
By the time he finished his bowl, he was no longer an apprentice cast adrift.
He was Illidan Stormrage of House Ariakan.
And that tasted far sweeter than cinnamon and honey.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Illidan arrived this morning with a calm I have seldom seen on him. Calm—not the brittle stillness of someone bracing for the next blow, but the steadiness of a man who has finally chosen his path. He spoke of leaving Darkgrove with no apology in his voice, no hesitation in his spine. There was pride there, yes—but also relief. A burden set down is a victory in itself.
When I offered that he transfer his apprenticeship with me immediately, his gratitude flickered like sunlight over water—too quick for him to fully hide. Illidan has been taught that affection is something earned through suffering. I intend to show him otherwise.
Jace watched all of this with a scholar's eye, taking silent measure of the man who will now share his lessons. There is tension there, but not hostility—merely two bright minds orbiting the same star and deciding whether to collide or shine the brighter for it. I suspect they will do both.
And Lytavis… well. The sun rises and my daughter blooms. It is impossible to begrudge her that happiness, even as I mark the way Illidan's gaze softens when he looks at her. I will not stand in their way—but neither will I let pride or power make ruins of what she holds dear. He is young yet, untested by true loss.
But this morning, he laughed.
A small thing, perhaps, but laughter is a language our home speaks fluently.
Today, my house became his home.