The Night Market wasn't meant for anyone with innocence still in their eyes. That was exactly why Tyrande and Lytavis wanted to go.
They slipped from the villa long after Lucien and Zoya thought them asleep, sandals in hand, skirts tucked to their knees. The market lay in the underbelly of Suramar, where the noble glow of the upper city gave way to crooked alleys and lanterns burning low and strange.
It was everything they'd hoped for - stalls draped in silks of every hue, beads and bells clattering, spice smoke thick in the air. Vendors called out in languages neither girl knew, their tables piled high with charms, feathers, blades, and stones that pulsed faintly with power.
Lytavis grasped Tyrande's hand tighter as they were pressed into the crowd. "We shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"That's why it's wonderful," Tyrande shot back, her grin bright even in the half-light. "Come on - no one will notice us."
At one stall, a toothless woman tried to sell them bracelets of moonstone. At another, a man with too many rings claimed his incense could call spirits. Tyrande bartered boldly for candied nuts, trading a ribbon from her sleeve, while Lytavis remained at her shoulder - half-watchful, half-thrilled.
Drawn by the glint of glass beads and the scent of burning sage, they ducked into a narrow tent. A fortune teller sat behind a table draped in midnight cloth. Her eyes gleamed pale in the candlelight as she beckoned them forward, palms outstretched.
"Tell us what awaits," Lytavis said eagerly, dropping a few coins into the woman's hand.
The fortune teller closed her eyes, tracing invisible shapes across the air. "You," she intoned solemnly, pointing at Lytavis, "will meet a handsome stranger."
Lytavis blinked. "That's it?"
The woman turned to Tyrande, repeating the same ritual. "And you… will meet a handsome stranger."
They exchanged a look - and burst into helpless giggles.
"We paid for the same fortune," Lytavis hissed as they stumbled back into the night air.
"Next time," Tyrande declared, popping a candied nut into her mouth, "we save our money and buy more candied nuts instead."
But as they turned to leave, the fortune teller's voice followed them, low and rasping, nearly swallowed by the crowd:
"Two threads tangled in one storm. When the strangers come, you will not walk alone."
The girls froze for a heartbeat, glancing back - but the tent was already dark, its candle snuffed, the woman gone.
Tyrande forced a laugh, though her fingers tightened around Lytavis's. "See? Just theatrics. Nothing more."
Lytavis nodded, but the words clung, curling like smoke in the back of their minds.
They wandered on until they found the animal pens at the market's edge - cages crowded with exotic beasts brought from across Azeroth. A feathered serpent hissed as they leaned close; a moth the size of Tyrande's hand fluttered silently against the bars.
Lytavis's face sobered. "They don't belong here," she murmured. "None of them."
Before Tyrande could answer, a drunkard lurched past, reeking of sour wine. He jostled her hard enough to spill the nuts from her hands. Lytavis pulled her close, eyes flashing, the laughter gone for the first time all night.
"Stay near me."
The moment passed - another lantern lit, another swell of voices carried them forward - but unease lingered. They ate their candied nuts on the steps of a shuttered shop, giggling softly again, though both kept glancing over their shoulders.
On the walk back, the streets were quieter. Too quiet. Their footsteps echoed against the stones, and more than once Tyrande thought she heard another set just behind.
"Lytavis…" she whispered.
"I hear it too."
They didn't run - not yet. But when a shadow peeled itself from the alley, following slow and deliberate, Skye launched from Lytavis's shoulder with a shriek like tearing silk.
The raven dove at the figure's head - wings beating furiously, beak striking again and again.
The man cursed, staggering back into the dark. The girls didn't wait. They bolted - sandals slapping stone, hands locked tight - until the villa's gates loomed ahead.
Only when they'd slipped inside, breathless, did Skye flutter down after them, triumphant and unruffled.
Lytavis cradled her close, laughing with relief. "Brave girl. You saved us."
Tyrande offered a sugared nut, but Skye turned her head away, waiting.
"Moonberries," Lytavis grinned. "She wants moonberries."
And so she got them - a whole handful from the kitchen stores. The raven ate smugly, feathers gleaming, while the girls collapsed into giggles on Lytavis's bed, whispering promises never to tell their parents what had happened.
Their hearts still raced, but as they drifted toward sleep, one truth remained: with Skye's wings above them, they would never walk alone.