Riley sits cross-legged on the fertile dirt and adjusts the straw hat on their head and to keep the sun out of their face. *It’s too hot a day for this*, they think, sweating into their jeans and shifting uncomfortably in their white shirt. They take a deep breath, humid air surging into their lungs, and hold it for a moment as they align their spirit with the sky. As they exhale, they straighten their spine as well as they can, inviting the energy from the sun to dance down their vertebrae and empower their spirit.
“Fiorire,” they mutter, their low whisper directing the energy through their hands. It doesn’t matter in which language the command is given, but they’ve always been partial to Italian. They press their palms to the ground and inhale deeply, bringing in air to push the magic out. It warms the dirt beneath her hands and energizes the seeds below, and within seconds tiny green sprouts peek up from the ground in a five-foot radius around them.