Where Ivy embodies the serene gentleness of blossoms and healing herbs, her sister Zynnia delights in the wilder, sharper edges of the forest. She is as much a gardener as her sibling, yet her garden bristles with thorny shrubs, carnivorous blooms, and berries that gleam like jewels but carry a wicked sting. To Zynnia, beauty lies not only in fragrance and color, but in the slyness of nature’s traps—the sweetness that hides a thorn, the shimmer that masks a bite.

Her power mirrors Ivy’s gift, coaxing plants into bloom with a touch. But where Ivy calls forth roses and daisies, Zynnia stirs brambles into tangled walls and coaxes pitcher plants to open wide with glistening nectar. She takes pride in weaving danger into delight, ensuring that her creations are both mesmerizing and mischievous.

Travelers who wander near her groves often fall victim to her sense of humor. A bush that glows with heady perfume may conceal needles sharp enough to sting the nose of anyone foolish enough to sniff too closely. A cluster of berries, shining as though kissed by morning dew, may prove edible only at the cost of a bellyache—or a hasty dash into the undergrowth. Zynnia never aims to kill, but she revels in the chaos that follows: doubled-over groans, red noses from pricked skin, and the embarrassed muttering of those who learn the hard way not to trust every flower’s smile.

Among her kin, Zynnia is known for her moods. She can be quick to laughter when her pranks succeed, but equally quick to scowl when her tricks are spoiled. Still, her passion and energy make her beloved, for she brings fire and unpredictability to gatherings that might otherwise sink into gentler play. When she and Ivy stand together, they are said to embody the dual heart of Thalorien: growth and decay, calm and storm, balm and sting.

For outsiders, an encounter with Zynnia is rarely forgotten. She leaves no lasting harm, only stories—and perhaps a lingering wariness whenever a flower smells too sweet.