The morning after the hunt, the Ariakan kitchen still carried the scent of venison roasting on the hearth. Platters of meat sat cooling, some already salted, others ready for drying. There was far more than one household could eat alone.
"Plenty to share," Zoya said, brushing her hands on her apron as she looked over the bounty. She gestured for the girls to follow her into the garden.
Tyrande was already waiting, hair loose about her shoulders, expression eager. She skipped along beside Lytavis as they followed Zoya between the rows of herbs.
"Gather sage and thyme," Zoya instructed, kneeling to cut sprigs of rosemary. "They'll keep the meat sweeter, longer. And don't bruise the leaves - be gentle."
Lytavis obeyed with careful fingers, while Tyrande snatched handfuls with less finesse, wrinkling her nose when a stem snapped too short. "Plants are harder than prayers," she muttered.
"They both take patience," Zoya said mildly, smiling as she tied her bundle.
Back in the kitchen, they wrapped the venison in clean linen, tucking the herbs between the folds. Tyrande tried to tie one of the bundles herself, only to make such a knot that it had to be cut free and redone. Lytavis laughed, and even Tyrande joined in, sheepish but unbothered.
By midmorning, their arms were full of neat packages, warm from the hearth. Together they carried them through Suramar's streets to the Temple of Elune.
The Sisters received them with genuine gratitude. "The poor will eat well tonight," one said, her lined face softening. Another pressed a pie into Lytavis's hands, its crust golden, the scent of moonberries filling the air. "For your family," she added with a smile. "A blessing returned."
Lytavis blinked in delight. Tyrande grinned, already tasting it.
They returned to the Ariakan estate just as the evening lamps were being lit. Lucien looked up from his book at the scent of fruit and spice, and even Zoya set aside her work to peek at the gift.
That night, after venison seasoned with their own herbs, the family sat together to share the pie. Tyrande and Lytavis leaned shoulder to shoulder at the table, sticky with berry juice, laughing as they tried to steal the last bite from each other's plates.
It was a simple day, a day of gardens and errands, but one that lingered sweetly - a reminder that small gifts, shared with care, always found their way back home.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
There is a grace in ordinary generosity. The girls see only errands and laughter, but I see the first threads of the women they will become. Lytavis gives because it feels natural to her; Tyrande gives because joy demands to be shared. Both are forms of devotion.
Zoya says that kindness is like spice - meant to be scattered freely so its scent carries. Watching them tonight, faces bright with moonberry and mischief, I believe her. The world will ask much of them soon enough. For now, may it remember them as they are: two hearts learning that sweetness grows when it is given away.