Skye had been with Lytavis for nearly two years when the gifts began—small things, easily missed: a smooth pebble on her windowsill, a torn parchment scrap. Lytavis would look up to find the raven preening, golden eyes sharp with satisfaction.
"Did you bring this?" she whispered once, holding a scrap. Skye cawed, as if it were obvious.
The offerings grew bolder: a bronze button, a frayed ribbon, a dented silver bead catching the light. Skye carried each treasure in her beak, placing it with care, her gaze insisting Lytavis notice.
Tyrande saw it first. They were sprawled in the Ariakan gardens, weaving foxflower chains, when Skye swooped low and dropped a bent, tarnished bronze hoop into Lytavis's lap—likely scavenged from a Suramar ditch.
"That's disgusting," Tyrande said, wrinkling her nose. "She's picking through garbage!"
"She's choosing," Lytavis corrected softly, thumb tracing the hoop's dents. "She brings what she thinks I'll keep."
"Or what's shiny," Tyrande muttered, eyeing it with reluctant curiosity.
Lucien noticed too. One evening, he found Lytavis cross-legged on the floor, Skye perched nearby, her latest gift—an indigo quill, nib bent—in Lytavis's palm. He knelt beside her.
"She doesn't bring these by accident," he murmured. "Ravens are clever, but this is more. She sees you. And chooses to give."
Lytavis grinned. "I know she's mine."
"You are hers," Lucien corrected, brushing hair from her face. "There's a difference."
Days later, a carpenter delivered a polished wooden perch, its base weighted, to Lytavis's room. Lucien had ordered it quietly, placing it by the window where Skye roosted. "So she doesn't balance on shutters," he said simply.
Lytavis's eyes shone. Skye hopped onto the perch, as if it were hers all along. That night, Lytavis slept to the rustle of feathers, Skye's eyes half-shuttered in contentment.
Lytavis found a velvet-lined wooden box for Skye's treasures: buttons, beads, glass bits, a lavender-scented ribbon. Tyrande teased her, but one afternoon Skye landed on Tyrande's shoulder, dropping a feather into her lap.
Tyrande squealed, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "She's slobbering in my hair!"
Lytavis laughed, clutching a new bead. "She's chosen you too."
Tyrande huffed, but tucked the feather into her hair, muttering, "Fine, for Lytavis." Her fingers lingered, softer than her words.
Skye preened on her perch, eyes glinting toward a distant temple bauble, already plotting her next heist.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
The bond between my daughter and that raven deepens. Skye shadows her like thought, bringing odd treasures to prove devotion. I no longer wonder; they simply are. Affection speaks in feathers and flight, and if this is the world's gift to her, I am grateful.