Blooming Brews was alive with the gentle chaos of afternoon: the clink of teacups, the scent of honey and lemon, the chatter of merchants and apprentices escaping their duties for a cup of something sweet. Sunlight spilled through the broad windows, gilding every curl of steam in gold.
Lytavis and Tyrande had claimed their favorite table near the ivy-draped terrace, two cups of mint tea cooling between them and a shared plate of lemon bars dusted with sugar. Skye perched on the back of Lytavis's chair, her feathers gleaming like spilled ink in the light.
Lytavis was recounting one of her midwifery lessons - something about recognizing signs of fatigue during the later months - when she realized Tyrande wasn't listening at all. Her friend's gaze had fixed on someone across the café.
He sat alone, a young man with tousled black hair, his tunic neatly pressed in that way that screamed apprentice. His attention was on the steam curling up from his cup, the picture of quiet composure.
Tyrande leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He's handsome."
Lytavis didn't even glance up from her tea. "So was the last one. And the one before that."
"This one," Tyrande said, already rising from her chair, "is different."
Lytavis barely had time to protest before her friend was gone - crossing the room with that deliberate grace that always looked half like prayer, half like mischief.
From her seat, Lytavis watched the encounter unfold like a play she'd already seen too many acts of. Tyrande slid into the chair opposite the young man without invitation, all charm and audacity wrapped in moonlit silk.
Lytavis couldn't hear their words, but she could read the scene perfectly: the way Tyrande tilted her head just so, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear; how she leaned forward when he spoke, her laugh bright and soft as bells. A hand on his arm, a murmur too low to catch - and then - Tyrande kissed him.
The entire café seemed to blink in astonishment.
Tyrande rose, unhurried, smoothing her skirts as though this sort of thing happened between sips of tea every day. She returned to their table, a picture of smug delight, lemon and sunlight in her smile.
"Well?" she asked, sitting down and taking another sip of tea. "How was that?"
Lytavis bit back a laugh. "Predictable."
Tyrande arched a brow. "You're just jealous."
"Of the chaos you leave in your wake?" Lytavis teased. "Elune preserve me, no."
Tyrande grinned, breaking off a corner of a lemon bar. "It's not chaos. It's… connection."
Before Lytavis could retort, a faint shift in the light caught her eye. She looked up - and froze.
High above, on the terrace balcony of an apprentice's building, two figures stood in quiet shadow. One leaned casually against the rail, black hair catching the light like ink; the other stood a little behind, calm, watchful, his green hair brushing his shoulders.
For a moment - just a heartbeat - Lytavis was certain the dark-haired one was looking right at her.
Her breath caught, a flicker of something she couldn't name running beneath her skin. Then the breeze stirred, and the moment was gone.
"Lytavis?" Tyrande's voice pulled her back. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Not a ghost," Lytavis murmured, eyes still on the empty balcony. "Just… shadows."
Skye ruffled her feathers and croaked once, low and knowing.
And somewhere far above the chatter of the café, the faint hum of ley-energy stirred - quiet, distant, but waiting.