The boy leaned further toward the window, his breath fogging the enchanted glass as the scenery expanded.
Down below, carriages of goods trundled through levitation lifts—barrels of ore, crates lined with preservation runes, and canisters humming with volatile aether. They were being transported swiftly, efficiently, guided by gloved hands and flickering spell commands. All around, the pulse of magic was undeniable. But the ones directing it—these mages—were not robed in silk or gold-threaded uniforms. Their cloaks were utilitarian, their movements brisk. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, faces marked by soot and spellburn.
These were working mages.
He didn't have the words to articulate it, but he could feel it. Their magic was different—not refined and rehearsed like the ones he'd seen in noble duels, but raw, adaptive. Grit in the gears of civilization. Power not granted, but earned.
"…They're not nobles, are they?" he asked quietly.
