Among the forest Nissri, where mischief and mayhem are a way of life, Brynnel stands apart. Calm where others dart, careful where most act on impulse, he has always been the quiet heart of the grove. With hands more used to tending moss and mixing herbs than playing tricks, he spends his days in the dappled light beneath the roots, crafting salves and tonics for beasts and kin alike.He tends to the forest floor as others might tend a garden: clearing fallen leaves, coaxing small sprouts from damp soil, and collecting the bright petals that drift down from the canopy above.

His sister, Brynna, could not be more different — a whirlwind of laughter and feathers, seen more often astride her black-winged companion than on the ground. She teases him endlessly for his stillness, swooping low to scatter his herbs or steal his vials, yet she always brings him what he needs most: a smile. Though they quarrel like wind and stone, the bond between them is unbreakable.

Those who know the Nissri speak of the twins as two halves of the same melody — Brynna the high, bright note that stirs the forest awake, Brynnel the steady rhythm beneath it. Where she carries the mischief of the wild, he keeps its wisdom. And in the quiet after her laughter fades, his voice can sometimes be heard, softly calling her home.