Major Rune of the Fire

Major Rune of the Fire glows with ember-bright sigils etched into a copper plate, its surface pitted by countless forges and streaked with ash-black fingerprints from hands long parted. The edges are scalloped where heat has carelessly kissed metal, and at the center sits a small ruby that thrums with a quiet, almost impatient warmth. When you lift it to the lamp’s glow, the rune seems to breathe, a thin wisp of heat curling along the knuckles. Lore ties it to the Ember Conclave, a circle of smith-mages who believed fire could be wrangled without being tamed, bound to the wearer like a friendly, dangerous pet. They carved the sigils in the old tongue of heat, a language spoken in furnaces and shadow, to keep the blaze from slipping away into the night. In the stories, the rune was not merely a calibration of fire—it was a pact, a reminder that power, when worn, asks for discipline and care. Placed into a helm or a gauntlet, the Major Rune of the Fire flares whenever rival flames clash, sharpening the moment when a burn tactic becomes a torrent. In practice, it tends to extend burning effects, hasten the spark of secondary fires, and synchronize with the wearer’s most aggressive instincts on the battlefield. Soldiers speak of it as a quiet partner, one that doesn’t shout but nudges the fight in the right direction, like a seasoned quartermaster who knows precisely which flame to feed when the wind shifts. For those weaving the art of scorch and ash, it changes the rhythm of combat, letting a quick strike turn into a chain of searing follow-ups, the air above the armor shimmering with heat mirages as if the world itself were breathing out smoke. It also becomes a catalyst in craft, allowing weapon-smiths and armorers to craft with a little more daring, to engrave heat into steel and watch the metal drink it in. Travelers who move between markets know the Rune’s worth is not just in its power but in its story—how it travels from forge to field, from campfire to caravan. I found it in a stall near Saddlebag Exchange, a place where tents sag with coins and the ledger glows under lanterns, and the vendor’s hands moved with the quiet precision of a well-tended hearth. The asking price was a coin or two above pocket change, the sort of sum you meet with a practiced smile and a trade of a spare scale or a scrap of rare ore. Yet the value felt larger, a tangible spark in a world where even fire must be earned. I bought it not to boast of power, but to honor the long line of smiths who tempered flame into a vow: keep it close, keep it honest, and always respect the burn.