By the time they were old enough to walk the city streets without a parent's hand, both families agreed: Lytavis and Tyrande could attend the Children of Elune Festival together.
It was a day for the young, held each spring when the moonlight lingered long into the evenings and the city filled with laughter. The avenues near the Temple bloomed with stalls piled high with sweet breads and candied nuts, painted masks strung overhead, ribbons swaying like streamers in the breeze.
The girls arrived wide-eyed, clutching the few coins their mothers had pressed into their palms. Tyrande dragged Lytavis first toward the games: wooden hoops tossed over painted posts, small beanbags pitched at stacked jars. She missed more often than she hit, scowling fiercely before breaking into laughter anyway. When she finally knocked the jars down, she startled herself so much she nearly tripped over her own feet. Lytavis teased her mercilessly, but joined in with equal clumsiness—neither came away with many prizes, but both were flushed with giggles.
Skye decided she'd have a turn too. With a flash of black wings, she swooped down and snatched one of the wooden hoops straight from the stall, circling above the crowd as children shrieked and pointed. She dropped it neatly onto Lytavis's head like a crown, cawed once in satisfaction, and flew off. The stall-keeper sighed, long-suffering, while the girls dissolved into helpless laughter.
Face-painting came next. Tyrande wanted something grand—an elaborate crescent traced across her brow—but the paint smeared when she sneezed halfway through, leaving her lopsided and blotchy. She flushed bright pink, ready to scrub it off, until Lytavis leaned in with a fox nose and whiskers painted across her cheeks and grinned so wide Tyrande had to laugh too. "Now we both look ridiculous," Lytavis declared.
Right on cue, Skye landed beside them with a stolen paintbrush still clamped in her beak, "adding" a streak of blue down Lytavis's jaw before flapping off in triumph.
They spent their coins on honeycakes, still warm from the ovens, and sticky candied fruit skewers that dripped syrup onto their wrists. Skye circled overhead, cawing loudly every time Tyrande dropped a crumb, swooping down at last to snatch half of a honeycake from Lytavis's lap. She dragged it across the street like a treasure, scattering crumbs in her wake.
As dusk fell, lanterns with cutout stars were handed to every child. The girls carried theirs side by side into the temple gardens, their small lights swaying in the growing dark. Tyrande held hers high, trying to imitate the poise of the novices she admired, but the lantern's flame flickered wildly as she waved it around to chase a moth. Skye darted in to peck curiously at the dancing glow, making Tyrande squeak and clutch it tight to her chest while Lytavis doubled over laughing.
The festival closed with music—flutes and drums echoing through the courtyards. Tyrande tried to join the dance, but her steps were too fast, her turns too sharp. She stumbled, nearly colliding with another child, then doubled over laughing at herself. Lytavis joined her, not caring if her rhythm was any better. The two of them spun in clumsy circles, faces painted, hands sticky, hair coming loose, until they collapsed into the grass together. Skye strutted around them like a victor, feathers puffed.
By the time the temple bells tolled, they were weary, lanterns still glowing faintly in their hands. They walked home shoulder to shoulder, messy, awkward, exhausted—and full of the kind of happiness only found in nights where the world feels endless.