Elaris
For the first three days of our march toward the Southern border, the mood had been dangerously high. It was an unnatural phenomenon; usually, forced marches left my men hollowed out, spirits frayed by the relentless, grinding pace of terrain and fatigue. But not this time. Everywhere Ivy stepped, she wove threads of resonance into the ground, coaxing color back into the wilted grasses and vitality into the soil as if she were breathing life into a dying lung.
The soldiers were feeding off it. Every time Ivy channeled her magic to shape the terrain or clear a path, the land responded, cycling that energy back into the ecosystem and bathing us in a restorative hum. It wasn't just a physical boost; it was a psychological anchor. It seeped into our boots and settled in our marrow. My
