Whisper of the Apple Tree Dragon

Voice like wind through brittle leaves, soft and sharp, echoing beneath the moon’s pale gaze:

“Two threads wound in thorn and bloom
One, the whispered page that folds the night,
The other, the blade that rends the gloom.

Petal’s breath, a quiet shrine,
Keeper of roots in silent time.
Words like dew on fragile leaves,
Healing the fractures the dawn conceives.

Thorn’s cry, a jagged flame,
Shadow’s kiss with no name.
A vine that strikes with whispered wrath,
Cleaving the dark, the shattered path.

Bound in blood, the twin spirits rise
Bloom that soothes, and thorn that defies.
Neither alone, the root nor bough,
In their embrace, the world bows.

O daughter of petal, bearer of tome,
O sister of thorn, wild and alone
Together the cycle is sealed by night,
One heart of fire, one hand of light.”

Ophelia Speaks: The Bloom and the Thorn

Her voice like wind through petals soft, yet sharp, carrying a power both gentle and fierce.

I am Ophelia,
Ancient bloom, thorned warden 
Spirit entwined with root and bramble,
With blossom and barbed vine.

Within my breath, life blooms anew 
Within my grasp, thorns guard the fragile light.
Two daughters walk beneath my gaze 
Two facets of my endless will.

First comes Brynja,
Petalshroud, bearer of the Tome,
Keeper of wisdom old as earth’s deep bones,
Her magic song of flourishing life.
She guides the vines to bloom,
Petals to fall with quiet grace.
Her knowledge runs deep as roots,
A lantern burning in dark earth.
From her hands flows healing light 
A refuge for the lost and weary.

Her pact: a book 
Vessel of secrets, spells that nurture worlds.
Through her, hope blooms 
Renewal slow, calm strength unfolding.
Guardian of soft hearts 
Quiet growth beneath the sun’s watchful eye.

But heed: I am also the thorn 
The fierce protector of wild hedges
Striking when balance falters,
When shadow creeps.

Then comes Linnea,
Thornheart, wielder of the Hexblade 
Born of brambles and fire’s breath.
Sharp edge in shadowed groves,
Wildfire cutting corruption’s roots.
Her magic pulses raw and fierce,
Thorn-whips snap, floral flames burn
Born from primal struggle 
Life’s war against the darkness.

No book she bears 
But blade entwined with my fiercest will.
Through her flows protection 
Strength in sacrifice, courage piercing and shielding alike.
Her pact the living blade of the wilds,
A vow unyielding where others bend or break.

Together: bloom and thorn 
Two halves of one soul.
Brynja nurtures roots 
Linnea guards branches.
One calls the light,
The other defends the shadow.

Neither whole without the other 
Where bloom softens, thorn defends.
Where thorn wounds, bloom heals.

Their paths diverge, but their purpose is one 
An oath woven deep within petals and thorns,
Within the ancient land’s heart.

I am Ophelia 
And through them, my spirit lives
Flourishing in balance,
Fierce in love,
Eternal as the endless cycle
Growth and decay,
Death and rebirth.

So it shall be.

The Withering Vigil, A Year Before Brynja’s Birth

An account from the final days of Ró, one year before the birth of Brynja Silmarsdóttir

As the suns dipped lower each day and the long golden light of Ró gave way to the encroaching stillness 
of Frjósemi, a hush settled over the Laugavegur caldera. The vibrant hues of summer began to drain from the 
land, replaced with chill winds and drifting petals. This was the time of the Withering Vigil, a sacred turning, 
when life releases its hold, not in sorrow, but in reverence. Snow had not yet sealed the Ashen Peaks, though 
the watchtowers perched along the caldera’s rim already bore the weight of frost and solitude. Only the bravest 
remained; stone-eyed sentinels of wood and vine, holding the last line before the world quieted into slumber.
In the Blooming Basin, the Apple Tree Dragon, oldest of its kind, had begun to shed. Massive blossoms, 
some larger than a villager’s head, fell in slow spirals, blanketing the moss-walks and rooftops with petaled snow. 
From its crown, where vines twined with ancient bone and crystal bark, the scent of old sap and Bloomrot Resin 
mingled with incense lit by trembling hands.

It was the Vigil’s eve.

Eydís Hrafnsdóttir, belly round with child, stood with Silmar at the base of the great tree. 
Her rose-hued scales shimmered in the dimming light. Silmar’s moss-veined arms steadied her, his expression 
unreadable beneath a carved vine-mask reserved for rites. Around them, the village gathered, elder 
bloomkeepers, rootwardens, children with lanterns shaped like blossoms. A ring of stone had been set, each 
petal-carved and engraved with draconic runes. In the center, hot stones smoked under layers of resin and 
crushed azalea bark, sending blue-laced vapors into the darkening air. When the multicolored moon, kissed the 
horizon, a hush fell. All knelt.
From the Apple Tree Dragon’s roots came a tremble. 
A low, hollow sound, like wind dragged through dry leaves, echoed over the stones. 
Then a voice, no mouth moved, no dragon stirred, but all heard it. 
Ancient, layered like a thousand petals folding into one.


The Prophecy of Thorn and Bloom

Two threads wound in thorn and bloom
One, the whispered page that folds the night,
The other, the blade that rends the gloom.
Petal’s breath, a quiet shrine,
Keeper of roots in silent time.
Words like dew on fragile leaves,
Healing the fractures the dawn conceives.
Thorn’s cry, a jagged flame,
Shadow’s kiss with no name.
A vine that strikes with whispered wrath,
Cleaving the dark, the shattered path.
Bound in blood, the twin spirits rise
Bloom that soothes, and thorn that defies.
Neither alone, the root nor bough,
In their embrace, the world bows.
O daughter of petal, bearer of tome,
O sister of thorn, wild and alone
Together the cycle is sealed by night,
One heart of fire, one hand of light.


The villagers fell into silence, the weight of the omen sinking into their marrow. 
Some wept. Others stared into the smoke with awe. 
Elder Sígrun Amaranthsdóttir leaned on her vinewoven staff, murmuring in a voice barely audible: 
“This... is no echo. 
This is naming.”
Eydís clutched her womb. Silmar’s hand found hers. 
They said nothing, for what words could stand beside prophecy?
The petals that fell that night were unlike any other year. 
Velvety soft, glowing faintly, they carried a scent of something more than bloom of destiny, of fire and ink, thorn 
and shrine. 
Each household collected a single petal, placing it upon their home altars as tradition dictated.
But in the Blooming Veil’s home, the petal did not dry.
It bloomed anew.


Legacy of the Vigil
One year later, under a similar twilight sky, Brynja Silmarsdóttir was born, her breath as soft as the breeze 
rustling altar herbs. 
Six years after, during a blood-red eclipse, Linnea arrived, clenched fists, howling at first light, as if demanding 
the world make room for her fire.
The verse spoken that Vigil would be etched into the stone ring below the Apple Tree Dragon, and remembered 
as The Prophecy of Thorn and Bloom. It marked the beginning of a new cycle; not just of seasons, but of 
guardianship.
The daughters of Eydís and Silmar were no longer just children of respected lines.
They were the cycle reborn.