THE DOOR
It hit the dry riverbed at the bottom with a thunderous hiss, turning the salt-encrusted cracks into a rushing, muddy torrent within minutes.
Ressi stood at the edge of the precipice, his head tilted back, eyes closed as the water soaked through his tattered shirt. He felt every drop as if it were a needle of pure energy. His Creation Magic was no longer a dormant seed; it was a wide-open conduit. He could feel the thirst of the continent—a deep, agonizing ache that pulled at his very marrow. For every tree he birthed and every gallon of water he pulled from the stone, a part of his own exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by the ancient, grounding strength of the planet itself.
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