Minor Sigil of Justice

The Minor Sigil of Justice rests in the palm of my hand like a coin-sized shard of late-afternoon sun, its surface hammered with delicate lines that echo a balanced scale and a patient, patient gavel. The metal is a pale alloy, cool to the touch, with a whisper-thin bevel along the edge that catches light and fractures it into a hundred quiet, precise facets. There’s a faint glow along the sigil’s runic rim, not so much a blaze as a pulse, as if the thing itself is listening for the moment when truth must be weighed and a decision made. The engraving feels ancient, as though it remembers when judgments were written in stone, and the lore tied to it speaks of small acts that tipped the scales toward mercy or stern consequence. When I rotate it, the symbol of justice seems to lean closer, as if it’s listening for what the wearer intends to do with it, not simply what the wearer can do with it. In the stories carved into the walls of old magistrates’ halls, this sigil was said to have been minted by scribes who believed every decision leaves a trace. It’s not just a charm; it’s a reminder that to walk a path with integrity is to bear the weight of consequences in your stride. The Minor Sigil of Justice is tied to that long memory, a relic that can thread itself into a traveler’s gear and offer a quiet, steady nudge toward fair play. People who carry it claim it cultivates a certain steadiness in the heat of a fight—the sense that the moment demands balance, not bluster, and that every strike has a meaning beyond the strike itself. It isn’t flashy, but it is reliable, and that reliability tends to ripple outward: a hardened mercenary choosing restraint, a healer holding back a healing spell a beat longer to prevent waste, a smith pausing to weigh a merchant’s claim with a patient nod. Its uses on the field feel like a natural extension of its story. Slotted into a weapon or mounted on armor, the sigil seems to sound a quiet note whenever the tide of combat turns—an opportunity for the wearer to decide whether to press the advantage or temper it. In practice, that can translate to proccing a restorative effect at a critical moment, or triggering a brief increase in focus that sharpens decision-making during a skirmish. It’s not a weapon’s roar, but a compass needle: steady, unassuming, but deeply trusted by those who’ve watched battles hinge on a choice made without fanfare. Along the road I trade tales and trinkets with others, listening for rumors and prices alike. Saddlebag Exchange, a familiar pocket of stalls where merchants lay out talismans and trinkets like a map of a city’s memory, is how some come to own a Minor Sigil of Justice. Prices drift with demand—sometimes a handful of silver, sometimes something shinier that someone swears will bring luck—though the wiser buyers look beyond sparkle and listen for the sigil’s steady heartbeat. A coin, a story, a choice—these are often the currency of a fair purchase, and the Minor Sigil of Justice tends to reward that kind of patience more than any rush of wealth.