The Ariakan villa on the western edge of Suramar was a place of laughter, feathers, and half-healed creatures underfoot. That was where Tyrande loved to slip away after her long days of lessons - away from the marble hush of the temple tutors, toward the warmth that always seemed to glow wherever Lytavis was.
Her friend never greeted her at the door like a proper young lady. No - Lytavis came running barefoot from the garden or the stable, her raven Skye perched on her shoulder, Ginger at her heels, or the newest addition to the menagerie, a half-grown manasaber she called Whisper padding faithfully at her side.
They tried their hands at archery in the gardens, Tyrande's arrows forever clattering against stone walls or vanishing into brambles. She muttered half-formed prayers to Elune with every miss. Lytavis laughed, but then pressed Tyrande's hands steady on the bowstring until the shot flew true.
Later, they sprawled on the villa roof to watch the leylines shimmer faintly at dusk, the air scented with poultices Lytavis had left steeping for her "wildland friends." Tyrande whispered scraps of prayers she was still learning; Lytavis whispered promises to ravens and foxes.
When the day came that Lytavis returned home from her first solo hunt, Tyrande watched her kneel beside the fallen rabbit. Before the knife ever touched its hide, Lytavis bowed her head and murmured:
"Thank you, majestic one. May your spirit be embraced by Elune, knowing that you have served your purpose."
And always, the villa seemed to hum with life. Injured animals simply found their way there, as if the leyline beneath the house called them. A Skyhunter with an injured wing fluttered into the orchard; a cliffquill limped in on a sprained paw; once even a stag appeared at the gate, antlers tangled in vines. Lytavis tended them all, her mother watching with quiet pride, her father shaking his head as though wondering how many more patients the villa could hold.
And now, it wasn't only animals who came to her. Crysta had begun to trust Lytavis with more than gathering herbs and boiling water. She let her listen with careful fingers for the quickening in a mother's belly, taught her how to measure the swell of months, and left her to soothe frightened women while she tended another.
When Lytavis spoke of it at the villa, her eyes shone no less than when she healed a bird's wing or set a splint for a fox's paw. She repeated the mothers' words with reverence, as though each was a prayer. Tyrande listened, equal parts fascinated and faintly overwhelmed, laughing when Lytavis practiced her calm midwife's tone on her.
"You'll be delivering babies before long," Tyrande teased.
"Someday," Lytavis said, quiet but certain.
The kitchens, meanwhile, never stayed stocked for long. Candied fruits and honey cakes vanished like dew, leaving behind only the sound of muffled giggles and sugar-dusted lips. More often than not, the menagerie followed: Ginger demanding her share, Skye hopping after crumbs, even Whisper sprawling across the threshold like a sentry.
One evening, Lucien caught the girls in the act - honey still on their lips, hands suspiciously empty. "Ah, so this is why the animals flock here," he said dryly. "Not for Lytavis's healing, but for Zoya's baking."
Zoya only laughed, wiping a smudge of sugar from her daughter's cheek. "Let them steal. It keeps the house lively."
The girls exchanged a glance, stifling their giggles until they were safely out of earshot, then collapsed against each other in helpless laughter.
That night, Tyrande stayed in the villa. The servants tried to set a second bed, but the girls insisted on sharing one, climbing under blankets with Ginger curled at their feet and Skye roosting on her perch. Whisper prowled the hall like a guardian, her heavy paws thudding softly against marble floors.
They whispered until their throats ached - secrets about the priestesses' stern lectures, dreams of the hunts they'd join one day, and how the constellations seemed to shift when you stared long enough. Tyrande traced the scar on Ginger's leg with gentle fingers; Lytavis promised she would always mend what the world broke, no matter how small.
"Even me?" Tyrande asked, half-teasing, half-uncertain in the dark.
"Especially you," Lytavis replied, fierce and sure, her voice soft as the pulse of leylight through the villa walls.
They fell asleep like that - shoulder to shoulder, laughter still clinging to them, the wild gathered close. And for Tyrande, the villa was not just her friend's home. It was hers, too.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
The house was never built for feathers, paws, and laughter, yet somehow it has become their rightful domain. Animals, children, even expectant mothers now seem to find their way to our threshold. I once thought the villa a place for study and retreat. Now I see it is a sanctuary.
Lytavis tends each with the same steady hands, whether feather, fur, or flesh. She is trusted with secrets most adults never hear, and she carries them with reverence. It unsettles me to realize how swiftly she walks into burdens beyond her years, and yet I cannot deny the grace with which she bears them.
Perhaps it is not only the leyline that hums beneath these walls. Perhaps it is her.