Chapter Text
The leystorm rolled in before dawn, a whisper at first - threads of light crawling across the horizon, humming faintly in the marrow of the stones. By the time Zoya Ariakan’s labor began in earnest, the sky above the villa blazed with drifting ribbons of violet and cerulean, sparks of raw magic falling like rain.
She labored long. Lucien held her hand until his knuckles whitened, murmuring encouragement though fear traced every line of his face. After millennia together, they had long ceased daring to hope for this day. Hope had soured into longing, then hardened into resignation. And now, when the impossible came, it came with a storm that made the world tremble.
Crysta Morningstar, the midwife, worked with the calm certainty of a woman who had seen a hundred storms and a thousand births. Each time the shutters rattled with violet light, she glanced up briefly, as though listening for something only she could hear.
“The leystorms are not idle things,” she murmured. “They do not waste their fury on chance. The Weave itself bears witness tonight.”
Zoya bowed beneath the pain, sweat slicking her brow. Lucien bent close, whispering the name they had already chosen. Lytavis. Not for prophecy, but for love.
The storm flared brighter. The leyline beneath the villa thrummed like a heartbeat. Crysta steadied Zoya’s shoulders.
“Breathe. The storm is no enemy. Let it bear her in.”
And with one final cry, it did.
The child’s first wail rose and mingled with the storm’s pulse, so that for a single breath the whole villa seemed to sing with her. Violet light feathered the windowpanes, then softened into silence.
Crysta tied the cord, cut it clean, and laid the infant against her mother’s chest - skin to skin, heart to heart. Fingers. Toes. Lungs strong enough to protest the world already. She nodded once, her benediction plain: “Strong. Steady. She arrived well.”
Lucien, who always had words, found none. He bent his forehead to Zoya’s and laughed once, startled by his own joy. Zoya’s hands trembled as she guided her daughter to nurse, half-sob, half-laughter spilling free when the baby latched with stubborn vigor.
“Rest now,” Crysta whispered, gathering her tools as the storm drifted on, its light dimming to a far-off thread.
Inside, Lytavis breathed.
And the house learned her sound.
Elsewhere in Suramar, under that same blazing sky, the Whisperwinds welcomed a daughter. Tyrande’s first cries rose with the thunder of leyline and light.
Two children of different houses, cradled by different hands - yet both born beneath the storm’s gentle applause. The leylines had already stirred, weaving threads that one day would bind the girls together.