The Ariakan garden was drowsy in the afternoon sun. Ginger lay curled in a patch of shade, her russet flank rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep, the tip of her tail flicking with every dream. The air was heavy with lavender and the faint spice of marigolds.
Lytavis and Tyrande sat cross-legged among the rows, their fingers idly weaving stems of clover into chains. Tyrande's braids had come loose, and she looked more like a wildling than the careful child of the Temple. Her eyes, though, were wide with a solemn brightness.
"I prayed last night," Tyrande said suddenly, breaking the easy silence. "And then I dreamed."
Lytavis glanced at her, curious. "What about?"
Tyrande leaned closer, lowering her voice as though afraid the leaves might carry her words away. "I was a Priestess. I wore the white feathers, and the light was all around me. There were so many voices, calling—not just in Suramar, but everywhere. They were frightened. And Elune…" she broke off, her small hands tightening around the clover chain, "…Elune gave me the strength to answer."
Lytavis blinked, her young mind caught between play and awe. "What did you say to them?"
Tyrande's voice softened. "I don't remember the words. Only that it mattered. That what I said changed something. Like the stars themselves were listening."
The garden seemed to still around them. Even Ginger stirred, lifting her head for a moment as if she too had felt the weight of Tyrande's dream.
Lytavis frowned, thoughtful. "Maybe it wasn't just a dream."
Tyrande smiled faintly, her solemnity slipping back into the mischief of a child. "Maybe. Or maybe Elune just wanted me to know what I should be."
She tugged another clover stem, pressing it into Lytavis's hand. "Here. If I'm going to be a Priestess, then you'll need to be the one who heals me when I fall."
Lytavis laughed, the sound bright against the quiet garden. "I already do."
A shadow stretched across the garden path, and Zoya appeared with a tray in her hands. The scent reached them first—sweet and golden, honey warm as summer.
"I thought my little wildlings might be hungry," she said, setting the tray down between them.
Tyrande's eyes lit up, and she immediately reached for a honeycake, sticky sweetness already smearing her fingers. Lytavis laughed and took hers more carefully, offering a crumb to Ginger, who sat up with hopeful eyes.
Zoya brushed her daughter's damp curls back from her forehead, her touch light as a blessing. "The stars smile on girls who share their secrets and their cakes," she murmured, though she did not ask what the two had been whispering about.
The moment dissolved into giggles and sugared lips, as dreams and prophecy gave way to the simple joy of honeycakes in the sun.