Soulshard

Soulshard is a slender, jagged sliver of midnight ice, about the width of a finger and twice as long as a coin. Its surface is a mirror-dark sheen, smooth as glass but with micro-fissures that catch every flicker of light and throw it back as a cold cobalt glimmer. Along its facets run incised sigils—thin lines like frost etched by a patient hand—that pulse faintly when touched, a whisper of warmth that vanishes in a heartbeat. When the shard rests in a palm, you feel the weight not of metal but of memory, as if some long-quiet voice were listening through the chill. Lore says a Soulshard carries a fragment of a soul bound by an old rite, a remnant of someone who stood at the edge of a battlefield and chose to stay behind to guide others. It is the kind of object that feels out of place in daylight, yet at home in a shadowed workshop. Within the world, those who hunt for shards imagine them not as trophies but as keys. People claim they can be pressed into weapons or armor to lend steadiness, to calm nerves before a raid, or to bind a memory to steel so a fallen ally can lend a hand in the next fight. A Soulshard can activate an ancient sigil in a workshop, temporarily enhancing a weapon's harmony with its wielder and granting a focus and a shield of light for a minute or two. Others barter to graft the shard into a talisman, bestowing a small, persistent benefit that fades when the shard is removed. It is not a common drop, but when it appears, conversations shift: a party leader requests a quiet moment to decide which memory to bind, a crafter weighs draining its warmth for a marginal edge in the next skirmish. That is where the Saddlebag Exchange becomes the heartbeat of the shard's life. Stalls spill into the dusty lane, the air smelling of tallow and cinnamon. Traders call out as prices drift with weather and rumor. A Soulshard may change hands for a handful of silver one day and a stout pouch of gold the next, depending on demand and which rumor travels fastest—whether a guild has discovered a new ritual or a rare rider swears by its memory. The Exchange folks nod, weighing the shard as if reading a heartbeat, then tuck it behind velvet until a buyer can be found. As a traveler, you learn to see the Soulshard not as an item but as a hinge between old stories and new errands. It reminds us that memory is currency in Tyria as surely as gold, that small shards of the past can tilt a night and, in time, the fate of a village. When you cradle one and listen to its cold pulse, you hear a road ahead—one you share with strangers, merchants, and a memory that refuses to stay asleep. Its glow lingers in the memory long after the coin changes hands.