The orchard was full of late-summer light, warm and drowsy. Lytavis crossed between the rows with her satchel in hand, Skye wheeling lazily overhead. A mother in Evermoon Commons had gone into labor early; Lytavis had soothed her through the worst of the pain and left her resting with her newborn son tucked against her breast.
She felt tired, but it was the good kind—the kind that meant she was needed.
The kind that meant she belonged.
Skye landed on her shoulder with a pleased croak, pressing her beak into her hair.
"Show-off," she murmured, smiling as she rubbed under her throat.
Skye clicked proudly and leaned into her hand.
Tyrande stood in the Temple gardens, candles arrayed before her like scattered stars. Evening shadows stretched across the courtyard as she knelt, adjusting the last wick with careful fingers. Her novice robes were too long and her braids too messy by Temple standards, but she carried her tasks with the same earnest grace she always had.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels and breathed in the scent of beeswax and moonlilies.
Somewhere in the canopy, a nightingale sang.
She wondered, not for the first time, when Malfurion would write.
And wondered, too, if she would understand him when he did.
Illidan sat cross-legged on the floor of the apprentice quarters, a blanket draped over his shoulders to soften the chill in the air. His books lay open but forgotten, the ink on the page blurring into meaningless shapes as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Lucien Ariakan had taken him in weeks ago—without hesitation, without question, and without comment on the bruises Illidan hadn't quite managed to hide. The arrangement was official. The apprenticeship secure. The work challenging in all the right ways.
He could have moved into the Ariakan villa by now.
Lucien had even offered.
But Illidan remained in the quiet little room he'd occupied for years, as though the familiar walls could steady his racing heart.
Because he knew what came next.
He could face spellwork and theory without flinching. He could face duels, discipline, and the cutting tongues of court Magisters. He could even face the ghosts of Darkgrove's lessons without blinking.
But asking Lucien for Lytavis's hand?
That was a battle unlike any other.
He closed his eyes, and her face rose effortlessly in the dark—her smile, bright as moonlight; her braid wind-tossed; the way she kissed him in the orchard until his knees buckled and he'd had to take long, embarrassed walks through the trees while she laughed into her hand.
A warmth stirred in his chest, soft and aching.
Not a burden.
Not fear.
Something far more dangerous.
Hope.
Illidan drew in a steady breath and let it out slowly.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow he would speak to Lucien.
Tonight, he let himself feel what he felt.
Jace's room at the Ariakan villa smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen. He set his books on the shelves, running his fingers over their spines. The house wasn't as quiet as he was used to, but it was filled with the soft sounds of life.
He wasn't sure yet where he fit inside it.
But he felt… welcome.
Ginger lay stretched in a beam of sunlight by the hearth, loaf-shaped and content. Her tail flicked once in acknowledgment before she drifted back to sleep.
Far away in Zin-Azshari, beneath the gilded towers of the palace, the Well of Eternity shimmered with restless light.
The ripples were small—subtle enough that the novice custodians blamed a passing gust, a fluctuation of ley-energy, or their own nerves. But the senior Magisters had begun to notice the way the surface sometimes thrummed, as though responding to a voice too distant to hear.
A report was drafted in precise, steady handwriting:
Your Radiance,
Since the unfortunate incident involving Lord-Magister Darkrune and Apprentice Starscribe, the Well has exhibited minor irregular vibrations along its containment rings.
No cause has been identified.
No danger is suspected.
The resonance appears to originate from beyond measurable bounds.
The scroll was sealed.
Delivered.
Filed.
Dismissed.
Outside the chamber, the Well rippled once more—barely a breath, barely a tremor—as though something far beyond Azeroth had opened its eyes.
And noticed.