The Legend of Twisted Roots and Iron

In the time before time,

when the world was still ash and whisper,

the earth bore roots that reached not just downward—

but into the marrow of souls.

Twisted they were, gnarled with ancient knowing,

entwined with the bones of forgotten gods

and the tears of wild women who sang to the moon.

But roots alone could not hold the fire.

So the sky struck the mountains,

and the mountains answered with flame.

From that union—root and flame, earth and sky—

came a forge unlike any other.

Not of smoke alone,

but of sap and spark and sacred blood.

And in that forge, misfits gathered—

the ones too wild for the cities,

too soulful for the silence.

The broken, the bold, the witch-marked and war-made.

They came not to conform,

but to create.

They shaped shields etched in runes,

shelves that held secrets,

lotions laced with moonlight,

and bath salts that stirred dreams.

They welded with willpower

and brewed with bone memory.

They whispered to iron.

They listened to the trees.

They knew that beauty grows in the twisted,

and strength is born where roots grip hardest.

They called it:

Twisted Roots and Iron.

Because that’s what they were.

And what they make—is for souls like yours.