By her second year, Lytavis had learned the rhythm of her household—the sweep of her father's quills, the soft songs of her mother's garden, the hush of the cook baking in the kitchen. Yet she had begun to crave more than the familiar walls.
One afternoon, with spring pressing green into every corner of Suramar, Lucien and Zoya carried their daughter to the public gardens. The air smelled of wet stone and blooming lilacs, and children's laughter rang brighter than temple bells.
The Ariakans were not the only family drawn there that day. Across the lawn, the Whisperwinds had come as well, their daughter in tow. Tyrande was the same age as Lytavis, storm-born like her, hair already a striking shade of blue that caught the sun like polished silk.
The meeting began with courtesies—the kind nobility traded in Suramar, polite bows and well-phrased greetings. But it ended with the simple, inevitable gravity of children.
Lytavis toddled forward, balance unsteady but resolve clear. She stopped before Tyrande, who clutched her mother's hand, curious and shy. Then Lytavis reached out, blue eyes intent, and offered a flower plucked clumsily from the garden path.
Tyrande stared at it, then at Lytavis. At last she took the flower, clutching it tight with a delighted laugh.
The adults chuckled, trading amused glances. But something else moved in the moment, quieter and older: a hum that seemed to rise from the stone paths and shaded trees, as though the city itself approved.
The second meeting came on a bright morning, weeks later. Both families, restless indoors, had taken to walking the outer promenade where stone balustrades overlooked the shimmer of the ley-lines below. Fate—or perhaps the simple rhythm of shared habits—set their paths to cross.
Greetings were exchanged, warm with familiarity. While the adults lingered in talk of weather and temple rites, the girls settled on the flagstones together. Shoulder to shoulder, they babbled in that private language of small children—half words, half music, understood by no one but themselves.
Now and then, their parents glanced down, amused at the animated exchange. To adult ears it was nonsense; to the girls, it was a symphony. A secret pact spun from giggles, gestures, and discovery.
When the families parted ways at last, Lytavis and Tyrande waved solemnly, as though ending a conversation mid-sentence.
The city hummed faintly beneath their feet, resonance softer than words but just as sure: a friendship had been set in motion.
In the weeks that followed, in the Temple of Elune gardens, the two girls found each other again. Beneath the moonlit trees they played with the solemn intensity only toddlers can manage—stacking fallen petals into tiny piles. Chasing the same drifting moth. Tumbling into the grass with laughter that startled even the doves into flight.
Zoya and the Whisperwinds watched from a stone bench, their conversation gentle, their eyes often turning toward the children.
"It seems they've found a friend," Zoya murmured.
And so it began—not with prophecy or omen, but with two happy children in a garden, their laughter threading into the night air.