(fragment, penned in Illidan's hand)
Malfurion insists that I study in the library when the afternoons grow warm, but I find the noise of Blooming Brews oddly soothing. The chatter drifts up from the terrace like a song one only half remembers — merchants, apprentices, the clink of cups, laughter carried by the light. Life, unstudied.
I stood on the balcony today, letting the sun burn through the haze that lingers after too much reading. Below, a raven perched near two young priestesses — one of them the moon's own mirror: dark-haired, laughing, honey on her tongue. But it was the other who held my attention.
For a moment, the light bent differently around her. Not brighter — truer. The air thickened, the leyline beneath the street hummed as if in greeting. I felt it in my bones before I understood why. She looked up then — straight at me — and the Weave sang.
It was not desire. It was recognition, though of what, I could not say.
Malfurion called from inside, breaking the thread. When I looked again, she was gone. Only the echo remained, and the faint scent of lemon carried by the wind.
I will find her name. Some things the Weave does not stir for without reason.