Submission (#8126) Approved

Mavis steps carefully along a knotted bridge of mangrove roots, their surfaces slick with salt and time. The air here is thick with humidity, and a pale morning mist clings to the trees like gauze. Overhead, the dense canopy of Yggdrasil stretches far and wide, casting shifting patterns of light on the water below. She pauses, catching sight of a soft teal glow just ahead.

Tucked in the crevice of a gnarled trunk, a bloom unfolds.

The glassveil orchid is unlike anything Mavis has ever seen. Its petals are almost translucent, a delicate sea glass hue that seems to change with the angle of the light, blue, then green, then violet. Dew beads along its edges, catching the dim morning light and bending it into tiny, shimmering halos. The flower seems to hum with mana, not in a loud way, but like a quiet echo in the back of her mind.

These orchids don’t grow just anywhere. They only thrive in places where fresh and saltwater kiss, brackish, nutrient rich pockets hidden deep within the mangrove’s protective arms. Their roots twist into the wood itself, drawing on both the moisture of the air and the memory of the sea.

Mavis leans in, nose twitching. There’s a faint scent, clean, like rainfall on stone, with the faintest trace of something sweet beneath it. Her pomu drifts up beside her, mesmerized by the flower’s gentle sway in the breeze. Its ears flick back and forth in quiet wonder as it hovers closer to the glassveil orchid, almost as if trying to hear what the flower might be whispering.

She knows the locals say these orchids are good luck. That if you find one blooming near your path, you’re meant to slow down and listen, because the land is trying to speak to you.