The bells of the Temple had long finished their evening song, leaving only the whisper of the fountains and the rustle of moonlilies turning their faces toward the sky.
Lytavis and Tyrande knelt in the garden where the light always seemed to linger. It was their favorite spot - between the jasmine trellis and the worn marble path where the grass dared to grow. The air smelled of damp stone and night flowers.
Tyrande's small hands were clasped tight. "Tana Windblade is very sick," she whispered, eyes bright and unsteady. "Father said she might not see the next moon. We have to help her."
Lytavis nodded, solemn as a novice twice her age. "Then we'll make a moon wish for her."
They bowed their heads. Tyrande's voice trembled but didn't break. "Elune, please… she's my friend. She's kind, and she always shares her sweets, even when they're the licorice kind I don't like. Please make her better."
Lytavis added softly, "And if she's scared, please send her dreams that don't hurt."
A quiet settled over the garden, the kind that feels like holding your breath beside something holy.
From the colonnade, Sister Tyratha paused. She'd been crossing the courtyard, lamp in hand, when she saw them - two small figures in the grass, faces lifted to the moon as though they were part of the garden itself. Her heart folded at the sight.
She came forward, the lamplight catching the silver on her robes, and knelt beside them. "Little Tana," she murmured. "Yes. I'll pray too."
Her voice joined theirs - low, steady, older than theirs but no less earnest.
Two novices, returning from the library, stopped at the sight. One of them whispered, "They're praying for Windblade child." The other hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping forward. Then another, and another.
One by one, they knelt among the moonlilies and jasmine, until the garden held a small constellation of bowed heads. The moonlight deepened, silver and clear.
At the edge of the courtyard, a murmured message reached High Priestess Dejahna. She came quietly, her presence more felt than seen - the air changed, the shadows straightened. When she reached the garden, she stopped.
The children were still praying. Tyrande's little hands shone faintly where they met, light blooming between her fingers like a reflection of the moon itself. It spread across her arms, soft and pearly, until she seemed wrapped in a gentle halo.
Dejahna drew in a slow breath. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice carried reverence. "Elune hears them."
No one spoke after that. The light lingered a long while, touching faces, glancing off tears no one had meant to shed. When it faded, it left a peace so complete the crickets hesitated before remembering their song.