Ivy was pacing, her stride erratic. Her hands were moving in delicate, precise patterns, her fingers plucking at invisible harp strings in the air. Each time she caught a phantom thread, a faint, clean scent of jasmine would bloom—a physical manifestation of the allure she was struggling to contain.
I stood by the perimeter, my focus split between the map etched into my slate and the sight of her. While others in the camp were visibly swaying under the sweet, heavy pressure of her presence, I remained grounded. My mind was a fortress of discipline, and while the scent pressed against my senses, it could not breach my resolve. I had spent five centuries tempering my mind for this, but as I watched her, a different realization took hold.
She is gaining form.
The chaotic, frayed energy tha
