True Sight Light Gloves slip from the pouch, pale dragonhide catching the lamplight like a shy dawn. The back is quilted with mist-silver thread, a narrow runic sigil etched along the knuckles that seems to shimmer when you blink. The fingers are tipped with minuscule shards of tempered glass, cool and precise, and the interior is lined with a soft, rustling fur that echoes the hush of a library's secret corners. In the right light their color shifts—the blue-grey of a fogged canal at dawn, the pearly gleam of a pearl under moonlight. They feel light enough to forget you’re wearing them, yet the moment you adjust your grip, a thread of quiet power hums under your skin, like a memory waking. Collectors whisper of the gloves' lore: forged by a blind seer who learned to trust touch over sight, tempered by a caravan of exiles who plied ruined temples for truth, until the world began to bend and reveal its hidden patterns to the wearer. Some say the sigil was carved by a smith who could hear a place's history in the ring of a hammer; others insist the gloves were made from the skin of a shadow, if such a thing can be worn without bitterness. In any telling, they are a tool to see what ordinary eyes cannot, to lay bare the disguises that prey on the unwary. On the road or in a ruin, their true power remains pragmatic as well as mythic. When the gloves are worn, they carve out brief windows of "true sight"—an eye that cuts through stealth, reveals faint auras of hidden doors, hinges, and traps, and makes invisible lines of danger glow in a pale, infrared glow. They don’t grant omnipotence; instead they soberly tilt the world so the wearer can line up clues—the fallen glyph on a wall, the misaligned seam of a door, the glint of a chest behind a false wall. In the hands of a careful explorer, the gloves become a partner in a larger story: a guild member mapping a ruin’s heartbeat, a hunter trailing a thief’s echoes, a scholar decoding old murals that stutter with color only when truth touches them. Saddlebag Exchange, a shaded arcade tucked between a market stall and a river ferry, is where such items trade hands as if rumor itself could be bought and sold. The last listing I saw priced them with the casual certainty of a well-placed coin toss—not extravagantly, not cheaply, but in a range that makes sense to someone paying for a map of the world’s undercurrents. The whispers say a pair can fetch a few gold, enough to buy a month’s rations or a small lantern to illuminate a long night; the reality, of course, is that the gloves always find the buyer who believes truth is worth a little patience and a lot of courage. If you listen to the world long enough, you’ll hear them hum and know they are more than leather and glass. In stories told beside the road, the gloves become more than gear—they are a promise to every seeker: honesty in a world where truth hides behind light and shadow.