The Temple of Elune did not measure the passage of time by calendars alone. Its life was marked in festivals—songs to greet the turning moons, candles lit to honor ancestors, lanterns floated for the joy of seeing them rise. For the children, these festivals were their lessons, though they wore the shape of games.
This year, the air smelled sweet with starlight roses, their blooms gathered in great baskets until the halls themselves seemed perfumed. The festival was held in their honor, a celebration of resilience—starlight roses that grew stubborn and bright even in the cracks of stone.
For the first time, Lytavis and Tyrande were entrusted with a task. Not grand, not heavy with meaning, but theirs alone. A novice bent low to place a small basket in their hands, its weight filled with pale pink blossoms.
"Scatter them along the walkway," she said with a smile. "So the lanternlight has something soft to fall upon."
The girls accepted the charge with all the solemnity of sworn priestesses. Tyrande insisted on carrying the basket; Lytavis plucked each blossom with careful fingers, releasing it into the dusk. They debated endlessly over the proper method—should the petals fall one by one like stars, or all together like rain? After fierce deliberation, they decided on both: Tyrande tossed them skyward in generous handfuls while Lytavis laid them one at a time with reverence on the stones.
Novices passing by chuckled at the sight, shaking their heads with fondness. One elder paused long enough to murmur, "Elune loves both rain and stars." The girls exchanged a triumphant look, certain their compromise was the right one.
By the time the lanterns were lit, the path shimmered with starlight rose petals. Moonlight caught on the pale edges, so that for a breath the walkway seemed to glow of its own accord. A stray blossom clung to Tyrande's cheek, bright as a mark of paint; Lytavis carefully tucked another into her satchel, declaring it too perfect to waste.
Later, when the festival crowd pressed close, the hum of voices thick with laughter and the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air, a small boy stumbled at the edge of the walkway and fell. His name was Kethren, a year younger than the girls, and known for chasing anything that moved—be it moth or marble. His knees scraped the stone, and his cry rose high over the music.
Lytavis was there first, kneeling so quickly her garland tumbled from her hair. She brushed petals from the cut with her small hands, cupping the injury with a furrowed brow. Tyrande crouched beside her, arms spread wide, fierce as a guardian to keep the curious at bay.
"Shh," Lytavis whispered, voice too soft for anyone but Kethren to hear. Her palms glowed faintly—no more than firefly light, but enough to make the blood slow, enough to ease the sting. He felt a warmth, gentle as sunlight through leaves, and his sobs hitched, softening into hiccups.
Kethren blinked at her, startled into silence, before pressing his dirty little hand over hers as though to keep the light there.
The moment passed. The festival flowed on. But those who saw it remembered: one girl whose touch could soothe, another whose presence shielded. Both already moving toward what they would one day become.
When the last lanterns lifted into the night, drifting over Suramar like stars loosed from their constellations, Lytavis and Tyrande stood shoulder to shoulder, their hands still smudged with starlight rose pollen. They leaned into each other, whispering their own secrets into the hush. Above them the lanterns rose like blessings, and the petals beneath their feet glowed faint as if remembering dew.