The Ariakan hall glowed warm with lamplight, the scent of venison stew and fresh bread weaving through the air. Zoya moved gracefully from hearth to table, setting bowls before the girls, their cheeks still pink from an afternoon in the sun. Ginger stretched beneath the bench, tail thumping once before she settled into dreams.
Lucien lifted his cup, his gaze fond as it passed from Tyrande to his daughter. "So," he said lightly, "what adventures did you two discover in the woods today?"
Tyrande wasted no time, spoon raised like a staff. "Lytavis splashed me."
"I did not!" Lytavis protested, nearly spilling her bread into the stew. "She splashed me first!"
Zoya's lips curved as she folded her hands. "And I suppose neither of you splashed back?"
Both girls dissolved into guilty laughter.
The meal carried on with soft clatter and easy conversation until Tyrande, with sudden solemnity, set her spoon down. "I've decided," she said, as if announcing judgment. "I'm going to be a Priestess of Elune."
The words landed like a pebble in still water—no one doubted her. Zoya reached to cover her hand with quiet certainty. "Then you will be a devoted Priestess, child."
Lucien turned to Lytavis, eyes alight with curiosity. "And you, little one? Have you made plans to follow her?"
Lytavis laughed, shaking her head, droplets of river water still clinging to her hair. "No, not me. I don't want to be a Priestess." She paused, then her eyes brightened. "I want to keep healing. And maybe… help bring babies into the world."
The room stilled.
Zoya's spoon hung motionless, and Lucien tilted his head, studying her with surprise and pride mingling in his eyes. "Deliver babies?" he echoed.
"Yes!" Lytavis leaned forward, earnest. "Like Talira. Do you remember how small she was? Everyone was so happy when she came safely. I want to help with that. To be there when little ones arrive."
Zoya's voice softened. "You would be very good at that, Lytavis."
Lucien reached across the table, his hand settling over hers. "If that is your wish, it is a noble one."
Tyrande nodded firmly. "She'll be the best."
Laughter returned to the table, but a new note lingered—something more enduring than the play of the afternoon.
Later, when the house had gone still, Lucien sat at his desk with a candle guttering low. His journal lay open, its margins already crowded with notes on constellations and herbs, the ordered details of a scholar's life. Tonight, his words bent toward something closer to the heart.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
I still see her as a child, yet tonight she spoke of guiding life into the world as though she had already chosen her place within it. She laughs as freely as her mother once did, but there is weight in her words—an old steadiness I cannot name. I fear she will grow too fast. And yet… when she grinned at the table, I saw my little girl again. That memory I will keep close, against the years to come.
He closed the book and let the quiet of the estate settle around him, as if the walls themselves held the laughter and dreams of the day.