Relic of the Nightmare glows with a pale, ember-gray sheen, its obsidian surface breathing with faint blue veins that trace a sleeping map across the stone. The edges are burnished to a whisper, smooth as glass, while the center bears a sigil wrought in silver that seems to pulse when the moon climbs. Hold it up to the light and the runes blur into names whispered long ago by dreamers—names that belong to a court no longer welcome in the waking world. It is cool to the touch, yet it hums with a memory that is not yours, a chill that gathers at your knuckles and asks what you intend to do with a power that came from a nightmare you never fully escaped. Some say it is a shard of a dream the Nightmare Court sealed away, a memory fragment stored in a reliquary carved from a fallen branch of a moon-silver tree. Others insist it is simply a key—one that opens doors not built for daylight, where bargains are whispered in gravelly voices and the price is a risk you cannot quantify. In the wild lanes where traders hawk fancies and falsehoods alike, the Relic is never far from the stories that surround it. When a dawn-slick street breathes cold air, you hear the plush clack of coin purses and the soft rustle of cloth as buyers circle, chasing the glow it lends when held to a lamp. Its uses are not merely ceremonial; in the right hands it becomes a practical instrument in a world that still loves a good secret. Slot it into a quest mechanism and the relic awakens a dormant event circuit, guiding players toward a hidden chamber, a spectral guardian, or a risk-laden decision with consequences that ripple through subsequent bounties and brawls. It can empower your illusionist’s tricks, heighten a hunter’s senses, or tilt the balance of a fragile negotiation with a nightmare-haunted faction. Prices drift like smoke, and here the Saddlebag Exchange becomes part of the tale. I watched a hooded dealer lay the relic on a leather mat and mutter over a ledger as a crowd pressed close: the going rate moves with the moon, the week, and the rumor that someone finally tamed a fragment of fear. A bundle of rare mist-shards, a vow, and a slice of time—that’s what it could fetch, or it could be traded up for a rare sigil if the market is merciful. The negotiator’s hands know the dance, and so do those who walk away with the relic clasped tight against their chest, because the true value lies not in coins but in the stories the item will burn into the night. That is how the Relic of the Nightmare endures: as a doorway, a reminder, and a test for anyone who thinks they can carry a fragment of someone else’s fear without paying a price. If you listen, the relic will tell you which road to choose next, and why for yourself.