The adrenaline of the spar hadn't fully ebbed from my system when Ivy marched over. She didn't offer a graceful post-combat bow or a soldier’s salute; instead, she hauled back and drove her fists into my upper arm—thwack, thwack—one after the other, in a playful, rapid-fire rhythm. It was a gesture of sibling affection, yet she hit with a surprisingly solid, bone-jarring thud that proved she hadn't softened her strike just because the fight was over.
"Refining me?" she scoffed, though her eyes were bright with a mix of mischief and mock-indignation. She propped her hands on her hips, tossing her head back. "You make it sound like I’m a raw ore shipment, brother. 'Refined.' Honestly, the things you come up with!"
A soldier approached with a waterskin. I took it, offering it to Ivy first.
