The Festival of Small Lanterns always came with too many ribbons. Tyrande glared at baskets overflowing with them.
"They multiply like rabbits. Or acolytes," she muttered.
Lytavis laughed, looping a silver ribbon through a foxflower garland. "You volunteered."
"To supervise," Tyrande corrected, untying a knot. "The little ones adore me."
"They adore anyone with sweets," Lytavis said.
"Exactly," Tyrande grinned.
The temple courtyard buzzed: paper moons hung from archways, fireflies slept in colored jars, and a novice bickered with a pastry cook over a lantern-shaped cake's stability.
The Festival of Small Lanterns—named for the tiny, glowing lanterns young children carried through the gardens—was one of Suramar's happiest days. For Lytavis and Tyrande, now older, it meant helping, not parading.
Tyrande perched on the fountain's edge, hair pinned in her "novice-in-waiting" style. "Next year, I'll wear temple grey," she declared.
"You say that every year," Lytavis teased.
"This time I mean it." Tyrande leaned closer, whispering, "We'll need to watch the new boys. You never know who's the next Jace Tisserand."
Lytavis groaned. "If you're planning another 'victory,' I'm leaving the continent."
"Please. I've matured."
"You just tied three ribbons together to see if they'd reach the roof beam."
"That was science," Tyrande said gravely.
Before Lytavis could retort, Skye swooped low, cawing, and dropped two stolen ribbons—silver and blue—into the fountain. Water splashed, ribbons sinking like shimmering serpents.
"Skye!" Lytavis hissed, fishing them out with careful hands, her healer's touch gentle even on soggy silk. Skye preened on a garland, unrepentant.
Tyrande laughed. "Your bird's worse than me."
Before Lytavis could reply, a trio of small children came racing past, trailing ribbon like comets. One tripped and fell into the basket of flower garlands, scattering petals everywhere. The others froze, horrified. Lytavis knelt at once.
"It's all right, little moon. No harm done." She brushed the child's knees clean with glowing hands, and handed her a perfect, uncrushed garland. "See? It's even prettier now."
The girl sniffled, nodded, and ran off again.
Tyrande watched, softer. "You'll run the infirmary someday."
"And you'll be banned," Lytavis quipped.
They resumed work, Tyrande humming a half-remembered lullaby. When High Priestess Dejahna inspected the courtyard—garlands, jars, ribbons—she nodded.
"Beautiful," she said. "Elune has many hands today."
Tyrande beamed. "Yes, High Priestess."
Dejahna glanced at the fountain's floating ribbons, courtesy of Skye. "Perhaps avoid decorating the water next time?"
"Artistic choice," Tyrande said.
Lytavis sighed. "We'll remove them."
Dejahna's lips curved faintly. "Not yet. They're lovely."
The girls exchanged a look, collapsing into laughter that reached the pastry tables.
As evening fell, children gathered, clutching apple-sized lanterns. Apprentices lit them, the courtyard shimmering. Lytavis and Tyrande stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the glowing procession wind through the gardens.
"Like fireflies," Tyrande whispered.
"Fireflies with frosting," Lytavis said, noting smeared cheeks.
Tyrande nudged her. "Promise we'll still help when we're older?"
"Always," Lytavis said, eyes on the lanterns fading into dusk, unaware of Skye eyeing a glinting temple bauble nearby.