Where her brother Brynnel listens to the hush of leaves, Brynna dances upon the wind that moves them. Wild-hearted and sharp-tongued, she is the mischief that flits through the upper canopies of Thalorien — a Nissri too restless for stillness, too curious for caution. Her laughter is often heard before she is seen, rippling through the trees like a birdcall that refuses to echo twice the same way.

Unlike Brynnel, whose gentleness roots him to the moss and soil, Brynna lives in the air. She has befriended the winged creatures of Thalorien — sleek, dark-feathered beings that speak in clicks and trills and seem to understand her every whim. One among them, whom she calls Korr, carries her across the forest’s vast canopy. Together they skim the treetops, chasing wind currents and scattering leaves like sparks through the morning light.

When Brynnel lingers too long among roots and moss, tending his little garden of gathered seeds and herbs, Brynna teases him from the branches until he laughs again. The two are opposites in nearly every way, yet bound by a bond older than words: earth and sky, quiet and chaos, each incomplete without the other.

Brynna’s presence is fleeting. She arrives like a spark, stirs the world around her, and vanishes again into wind and wing. But when the forest grows too still, it is often said that a flash of red above the treetops marks her passing — and that the laughter that follows means the canopy of Thalorien still remembers how to dream.