Skye made her demands known the moment Illidan reached for another slice of bread.
Croak.
Sharp. Imperious. A queen demanding tribute.
Illidan raised a brow at her. "You've already had fruit."
Croak.
With a sigh more theatrical than annoyed, he tore a corner from his slice and offered it. Skye accepted it like a monarch receiving overdue taxes.
Ginger, tail sweeping the floor in hopeful arcs, waited patiently at Illidan's boot—her golden eyes wide with polite expectation.
"You too," he murmured, lowering the rest of the crust to her. Ginger accepted it with dainty grace, as if the bread had been specially prepared for foxes of discerning palate.
Across the table, Jace stared at the raven perched on the back of Lytavis's chair… then at Illidan, and back again.
"Is this… normal?" he asked.
Illidan considered the raven licking crumbs from her beak and the fox easing into a satisfied curl against his boot. "Yes," he said. "They've trained us well."
Jace blinked. "Darkrune Manor never had… pets."
"We don't have pets," Zoya corrected, passing by with a teapot. "We have family members with fur, feathers, and opinions. Welcome to the Menagerie."
Illidan leaned in to press a swift kiss to Lytavis's cheek as he rose. She smiled into her tea, warmth blooming in her chest at the quiet, unthinking claim of it.
Lucien stood, gathering them both with a gesture toward the nearest hall. "Study. I think we'll work on shield spells this morning."
Illidan swept another kiss across Lytavis's temple—softer this time, almost an apology for leaving her side—and followed after Jace.
The study door shut with a quiet click.
Zoya waited only long enough for the study door to close before giving Lytavis a look equal parts knowing and amused.
"So," she said, setting down her teacup, "Illidan officially under our roof. A bit sooner than we planned."
Lytavis took a sip of tea to hide her smile—not from embarrassment, but from how obvious her joy must look. "His situation with Darkgrove couldn't continue. And he belongs here. With us."
"Mmm." Zoya's tone held agreement, not doubt. "I'll tell Elise to put him in the room next to yours. Far end of the hall. Extra walls so the rest of us don't overhear the night you decide the moon is right for mischief."
Lytavis laughed, shocked into it. "Min'da."
"What?" Zoya lifted her brows, perfectly unapologetic. "I trust you both. But I also enjoy sleeping through the night."
Lytavis leaned back in her chair, honesty easy between them. "We haven't taken that step yet. Not out of fear—just… we want the first time to mean something. And to be ours, not rushed, not stolen."
Zoya reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her daughter's ear. "Good. Then when you choose it, it will be perfect. And intensely inconvenient for anyone trying to rest near the central hall, which is why you two will be exiled to the far end."
"Strategic motherhood," Lytavis said warmly.
"Generational wisdom," Zoya corrected, patting her hand and rising to her feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Ginger and I need to prepare for the extra mouths to feed tonight."
On cue, the fox sprang up and darted after her, bushy tail a banner of culinary menace.
Lytavis gathered Skye onto her shoulder. "All right, trouble," she murmured. "Time to wash the city off me."
Skye nuzzled her ear, crumbs still on her beak.
In the kitchen, Elise hummed as she cleared the table. There was a smile tugging at her mouth—one that spoke of schemes.
"A full house again," she said under her breath. "Much more lively than scrolls and silence."
She stacked the cups with a decisive clink. Two new apprentices, she thought. One housekeeper.
She would absolutely be bringing this up with Zoya.
Or perhaps she'd get to teach the young men the noble art of wiping down their own table.
She liked that idea far better than hiring anyone new.
Above the villa, morning light stretched wide—finding its way into the study, the garden, the rooms that would soon be filled with new voices.
Change had arrived in House Ariakan.
Not with thunder.
But with fox paws, flour dust, cinnamon, honey, and a young sorcerer's quiet, certain kiss.
And it felt right.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
Illidan moves differently now. No longer the restless pacing of a boy on guard, but the sure steps of someone who has begun to trust the floor beneath him. When I pass him a quill, he takes it without flinching. When he spills ink, he laughs. It's a small miracle every time.
Jace remains politely bewildered by our household. I've caught him watching Illidan feed Skye and Ginger, as if trying to decode an obscure ritual from a forbidden text. He'll learn soon enough: kindness is its own sort of magic. And Illidan—who once saw affection as weakness—is beginning to wield it fluently.
Lytavis is to blame, of course.
Or to thank.
The house feels alive again. Ink-stained scrolls share space with feathers, fox hair, and far too many crumbs. It's chaos, yes—but a kind that heals.
I suspect even the leylines hum a bit brighter these days.