The laundry courtyard of the Temple smelled of lavender soap and sun-warmed stone. Rows of linens fluttered on the lines, whispering like gossiping Sisters. Buckets clattered, water sloshed, and two small voices rose near the rinse basin, sharper than the evening bells.
"This is the worst volunteer duty," Tyrande declared, slapping a wet robe onto the board with a theatrical scowl.
"It's better than sweeping the novices' dormitory," Lytavis said, wringing out a sleeve, water dripping like tiny stars. "At least here we can talk."
"We could talk and do something useful," Tyrande countered, squinting at the robes overhead. "They're so plain. Shouldn't Elune's priestesses shine, like in the Rite?"
Lytavis's hands stilled, her patience fraying like old thread. "They're white to reflect the moonlight."
"But what if they glowed on their own?" Tyrande's eyes lit with that dangerous spark, the one that had kissed a boy and prayed for honeycakes. "Glowmoths do."
Lytavis froze. "No."
"Oh, yes." Tyrande scanned the air, undeterred. "They're all over the garden lamps at night. A few could make the robes sparkle."
"They'd fly away," Lytavis said, but her voice wavered. She remembered the Rite, the lanterns drifting like tame stars, and wondered if Elune might smile at a little glow. Still, her stomach knotted. "It's a terrible idea."
"Not if we feed them," Tyrande said, grinning like she'd solved a riddle.
The logic was flimsy, but Lytavis couldn't disprove it. Ten minutes later, they stood by the lines with a jar, a smear of honey, and a dozen indignant glowmoths. Skye, perched on a nearby post, cawed once, as if to say she'd seen worse plans.
The moths, released toward the robes, did not settle prettily. They darted, circled, and one plunged into the soap bucket with a splash. Another landed on Tyrande's nose, glowing furiously.
"Tyrande—stop laughing—she's stuck!" Lytavis hissed, coaxing the moth free with trembling fingers. Its wings pulsed faintly, like the hum she'd felt once by mana crystals, a whisper of the Weave.
The rest took to the robes, dusting sleeves and collars with luminous specks that shimmered like leylines under moonlight. By the time they'd caught the last glowmoth, every robe glowed faintly, a constellation of mistakes.
They were still bickering over how to fix it when Sister Tyratha appeared, arms folded, expression hovering between disbelief and divine resignation.
"Explain," she said.
Tyrande glanced at Lytavis. "We were decorating. For Elune."
"With insects?" Tyratha's brow arched.
"They're pretty," Tyrande offered, undaunted.
Lytavis, desperate, held up the jar. "We fed them honey first."
"Of course you did." Tyratha sighed, eyeing the shimmering robes. "They are beautiful, I suppose. But now you'll scrub the dust off by hand. Elune's light doesn't need embellishment."
Tyrande's face fell, then brightened. "So we're not in trouble?"
"You're in lovely trouble," Tyratha said mildly. "Finish the washing. And no more moths."
As she left, Skye cawed again, flapping off with a mischievous glint. Tyrande grinned at Lytavis. "Told you Elune would approve."
Lytavis wrung out another robe, muttering, "Elune doesn't have to scrub the stains." But when the wind lifted the glowing garments, swaying like pale lanterns, even she smiled—until she saw the stubborn dust clinging to her hands.