"You’re still looking at this like an Ivearonian, Elaris," Ivy said, her voice tight with that sharp, focused frustration I’d grown used to. We were three days into our forced march toward the Southern border, and the tension between her and the scouts had been palpable. She was walking beside me, her hands moving in restless, precise motions—almost as if she were sculpting the air itself to distract from the fatigue. "You see magic as a tactical asset—a weapon to be deployed, aimed, and depleted. You have to understand: it’s not a weapon. It’s a sketch. It’s an extension of my intent."
I frowned, keeping my eyes on the treeline. "A sketch? Ivy, you’re terraforming the ground beneath us. You’re turning barren dust into thriving ecosystems. That’s not a sketch; that’s a masterwork of raw e
