The Temple of Elune did not mind the laughter of children. Its halls had echoed with such sounds for millennia—small voices straining to echo prayers, small hands fumbling over lessons that would one day steady into grace, small faces lit with wonder.
For Lytavis and Tyrande, it was their first classroom. They sat cross-legged on woven mats among the other children of Suramar, their eyes wide, their patience less so.
Mornings began with hymns. The novices' voices rose, clear and steady, while the children joined in with stubborn determination. Tyrande always sang the loudest. Her gaze fixed on the moonlit sigils carved into the walls, her voice strayed from the melody, but her eyes shone as though she sang to someone who might yet answer. A few novices exchanged amused glances, whispering that Elune surely heard such earnestness.
Lytavis hummed along absently through the hymns, but leaned forward the moment the songs gave way to lessons. She listened when they spoke of herb lore and simple healings, intent as though the words were being written straight into her bones. When a novice scattered sprigs of Dreamleaf and Foxflower across the mats, she gathered hers with careful fingers, pressing them to her nose as if memorizing their secrets—Dreamleaf soft and ethereal, Foxflower bright and sharp like citrus. Other children squirmed and giggled, but she sat still, learning which leaves cooled fevers and how poultices soothed bruises.
At midday, when the lessons paused, the children gathered on the temple steps with their small satchels and wrapped bundles. Tyrande always unwrapped her neat parcels of fruit and bread with solemn care, while Lytavis tore into hers with sticky-fingered delight.
It never took long for trading to begin. That day, Tyrande's apple slices gleamed pale and crisp in the sun. Lytavis eyed them, already nudging forward a honeycake from her basket.
"Trade?" she asked, the word carrying all the weight of diplomacy.
Tyrande's smile dimpled as she agreed. She bit into the honeycake with a hum of satisfaction, crumbs clinging to her lip. Lytavis crunched an apple slice in return, eyes bright as though she had won some great prize.
Zoya, who always tucked two honeycakes into her daughter's bundle, had long since guessed at the pattern. "For Tyrande," she would say with a knowing smile as she wrapped the extra, and Lytavis never argued.
The girls finished their lunches side by side, knees bumping, as natural in their sharing as in their laughter. By the time the novices called them back inside, their satchels were empty, their bellies full, and their friendship a little more deeply rooted.
In the afternoons, the temple gardens became their second classroom. Tyrande's favorite game was to lie flat in the grass and point to the drifting clouds, naming their shapes with solemn delight: "lion… ship… bow." The other children laughed and joined her, but she was always the first to lift her face to the sky, always the one who wanted to name what was beyond reach.
Lytavis preferred the fountains. She sat at their edges, hands trailing in the water, whispering minor blessings she had overheard. She practiced the syllables until her tongue ached. Once, when a boy tripped and scraped his knee on the stone path, she pressed her damp palm to the wound with a furrowed brow. It did not heal—not yet—but the boy stopped crying all the same, distracted by her solemn attention.
The novices watched quietly, sometimes trading knowing looks. They did not speak of fate, for such things were not theirs to decide. But they saw how Tyrande lifted her gaze heavenward, and how Lytavis bent hers earthward, and they knew both paths were sacred.
When the temple bells rang to dismiss them, the children scattered in all directions, robes and ribbons fluttering like moth wings. Yet two always found each other again. Lytavis and Tyrande left hand in hand, their chatter spilling like water over stones—about moths and moons, bruises soothed by comfort, clouds shaped like dreams.
Small wonders, woven into their days.