Relic of Altruism

Relic of Altruism is a palm-sized disk of dusk glass, its surface a lattice of emerald fire beneath a thin veil of patinated brass. Every inch bears trace etching—interwoven roots that curl into a pair of open hands, a symbol grown worn by time yet luminous as if it still holds a promise. The back bears a lineless sigil, a cycle of two hearts entwined with a quiet anchor, and the edges feel cool, almost glacial, like a coin pressed from night air. When you cradle it, the chamber inside murmurs with a soft, living warmth, as if the relic is listening for a story it already knows you will tell. In the right light the runes along the rim shimmer with a pale green glow, and you can swear the glass remembers your breath, the way it fogs and clears as if tasting the moment you choose to act for another. Lore has it that the relic was fashioned by a healer-merchant who walked the borderlands between caravans and ruined cities, binding his own fortune to the welfare of strangers. Some say he carved the first memories of compassion into the brass, turning a simple token into a beacon for those who would share bread, water, and courage. Over the years it passed through the hands of caretakers—sage women tending the wounded, young scouts lifting fallen comrades, old mercenaries who learned that mercy could be heavier than steel. The relic’s voice, if you listen closely, is not a shout but a patient insistence: do not hoard; do not hide; there is always a form of help that does not require winning a fight, only choosing to stand with someone when the room goes quiet. In the world where it travels, the Relic of Altruism does more than glint on a chain. It participates in the rhythm of a party, nudging the balance toward shared risk and shared reward. Hold it up toward a wounded ally, and a faint ripple travels outward, a halo that settles on those near you, reducing the strain of healing and support. It does not grant raw power; instead it depthens the bonds that form when a group pushes through danger together. In practical terms, its presence lowers the cooldowns of supportive actions by a small margin and stores a limited reserve of augury—when conditions align, that reserve can be released to grant a moment of focused aid: a burst of healing, a shield that shields several to keep a heart beating, or a surge of momentum that lets a battered unit reclaim ground. It feels less like a weapon and more like a quiet treaty with strangers, renewed with every act of kindness. Market days make the relic sing with a different rent of time. I found it first in a crowded stall where pouches of powder and beads hung from the ceiling like stars, and a trader known as Saddlebag Exchange laid the relic on a velvet cloth stretched across a wagon bench. The price slid between us as smoothly as a river stone—two gold and twenty-five silver, perhaps, if you hold to tradition; a patient haggle might shave it down to around one gold and fifty silver, traded with a tale of a rescue at dusk. The stall keepers spoke softly of the relic’s appetite for generosity, and even a skeptic might walk away carrying a prayer that altruism is not a weakness but a currency that grows with use. And so the Relic of Altruism travels on, not as a boastful relic but as a companion to those who choose the longer road—one path where courage meets care and the world remembers to listen.