Life is not a sentient force. It does not possess a moral compass, nor does it understand the concept of time. It possesses only a single, absolute, unyielding mandate: Move.
Eight-month-old Rowan was happily crawling through the lush, overgrown northern gardens of Oakhaven.
The Verdant Heir was a giggling engine of raw, unfiltered vitality. Wherever his tiny knees touched the soil, the grass instantly thickened and darkened to a rich emerald green. Tiny, perfectly formed wildflowers erupted in his wake, leaving a trail of blooming color across the lawn.
But Rowan's passive life magic did not stop at the topsoil.
The hyper-accelerated vitality sank deep into the earth. It bypassed the roots of the ancient oaks, pushed through the loam, and seeped down into the crushing pressure of the bedrock.
