In the heart of Lake Hjälmaren, where the waves whisper quieter than the wind and no map tells the full truth, lies a place known only as Stenskär. The name tastes of stone and water—neutral enough to conceal what the island truly harbors. For beneath the trees and along forgotten paths, an ancient presence stirs.
Ankeflo, the wind whispers. The dragon’s name. A name still clinging to moss and rustling leaves, as if the very ground remembers him.
The path into the island’s heart is easy to miss. It looks like any forest trail, but those who walk it soon see otherwise. The trees lean inward, their branches intertwined, forming a vaulted tunnel that lets in only shards of light. Everything fades into grayscale, as though color stays behind in the world outside. Within the tunnel, the air is thick with memory.
This is the Dragon’s Path, and it leads to what remains of Ankeflo.
Once, they say, it was only a birch tree—snapped in a storm, perhaps—but no storm breaks a tree like that. In the exposed wood, where the trunk tore, something else takes shape. A dragon’s head. Twisted, majestic, sorrowful. Its mouth half open, as if to release one final, forgotten breath.
Ankeflo. The spirit of the tree lives on, sculpted by splinters and silence.
Farther on lies the stone. Quiet. Gray.
Thin rivulets of water run down its surface. They come not from rain, nor from springwater. They emerge from within the rock itself. The dragon’s tears, people say. Each drop a wound. Each stream a memory of the bond once shared between dragon and rider.
And above the tears—there, carved into the stone’s worn face—is a portrait.
Not a random formation. A true face, carefully etched long ago. Only one eye remains clearly visible, but it sees. Not like a drawing sees—but like something waiting. The eye doesn’t follow you. It doesn’t judge. But it knows.
The riders name is lost to time. Only this is known: he once rode upon Ankeflo’s back, soaring above water and cloud. Something broke between them—a lie, a betrayal, a choice. They say the rider remained when the dragon fell. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Those who dare touch the stone say it is warm, even in winter.
Most leave the island in silence. Some never return. A few come back changed—and say nothing more.
But those who linger long enough say the eye sometimes blinks. That the stone face whispers. And that if you whisper back, with the right words, something in you may awaken—or fall forever still.
So if you ever find a path in the forest that pulls at you, and a broken birch that watches, and a stone that weeps—ask yourself:
Who betrayed whom?
And do you truly want to know the answer?