They played often in the Temple gardens, two little girls chasing each other between marble pillars while the novices whispered prayers inside. Tyrande's blue hair caught the light like a banner, always just ahead, while Lytavis's laughter followed like bells.
Sometimes they made little houses out of fallen twigs and leaves, solemnly declaring them "temples" before scattering them to chase fireflies instead. Other times they sat side by side in the grass, trading treasures—Tyrande's smooth pebbles for Lytavis's ribbons, Lytavis's stolen quill-feathers for Tyrande's pressed blossoms.
The priestesses smiled to see them. "Two children beneath Elune's eye", they murmured, as if even their play was a kind of prayer.
One evening, when the moon was full and the gardens were silver with light, Tyrande tripped and scraped her knee on the stone path. The sudden cry stilled the garden, but Lytavis knelt beside her at once, patting clumsy hands over the tear in her friend's skin. She whispered nonsense words that sounded suspiciously like her mother's healing prayers.
Tyrande sniffled, then giggled through her tears. "It doesn't hurt as much when you say that."
From that night onward, they were rarely apart in the gardens. They quarreled over dolls, conspired over sweetcakes, and invented a hundred small rituals only they understood. When one laughed, the other followed. When one sulked, the other softened.
And though neither could name it yet, their bond was already rooted deep, like twin saplings twined together beneath the soil.
Seasons turned, and the gardens gave way to marble halls. What began as play beneath the open sky became lessons beneath Elune's gaze.
Their first lesson at the Temple of Elune came on a morning when the air was cool with rain and the marble steps gleamed like polished pearl. The girls clung to each other's hands as they crossed the threshold, wide-eyed beneath the vaulted arches.
Inside, the great hall glowed with lamplight, soft as dawn. Priestesses in white and silver moved like water, their voices low, their steps unhurried. Incense curled in pale threads, and the carved statue of Elune watched over all, her face serene and unreadable.
The novices were gathered in a circle on the floor, their small voices echoing as they repeated a simple chant. Tyrande and Lytavis slid into place beside each other, knees touching, eyes flicking between the priestess who led them and the statue above.
The chant was easy—soft syllables shaped like breath. Tyrande learned it quickly, her blue hair falling into her eyes as she mouthed the words with earnest concentration. Lytavis's voice was slower to join, but when it did, it rang clear, as though she had been waiting to make sure the cadence suited her.
When the lesson ended, Tyrande whispered, "Do you think she heard us?" Her gaze tilted toward the stone face of Elune.
Lytavis's bright eyes lingered there, then turned back to her friend. "I think she always hears us."
The priestess overheard and smiled, though she said nothing. Later, she would remark quietly to Zoya and the Whisperwinds that the girls had a way of listening to each other as if they were already listening for something greater.
And so their lessons began—half prayer, half play, wholly shared.