Strong Torch

The Strong Torch rests in the palm of a gloved hand, its shaft a stout, burnished wood, stained by years of rain and travel. The grip is wrapped in frayed leather that smells faintly of smoke and old rain, the weave darkened to the color of midnight shale. At the head, a small bronze cap holds a pale blue flame that seems to bend around the air, stubborn as a vow and bright as a dawn in a cave. The metal ring around the neck catches the glow, throwing halos on the stone and tracing the flicker across the knuckles of a weary traveler. It feels solid, not fragile, as if it could shrug off a fall and still burn true, a companion carved from craft and care rather than illusion. lore-woven whispers say these torches were forged by lantern-keepers who walked the edge between daylight and the long dark, designed to endure damp breath and damp rock alike, a beacon that never truly yields. In the markets of night and shore, I heard the torch speak of its purpose not as a weapon or a toy but as a steadfast ally. Its light does more than chase away the darkness; it pulls questions out of the walls. A rune etched beside a collapsed stair or a sigil worn smooth by footfalls reveals itself in the torch’s glow, as if the flame were translating rough stone into stories you can read with your eyes. It makes the unknown walk toward you—puddles that ripple with memory under the glow, cracked doors that sigh open when the flame touches them, and the scent of resin and iron that swells when you press forward into a corridor where the air grows chill. People carry it not just for warmth, but for direction, for certainty when the map falters and the night presses in with its own slow patience. Its usefulness grows in the company of others; the Strong Torch becomes a quiet punctuation mark in a larger narrative of exploration and encounter. Boss-camps slide into view like old memories when a circle of light threads through the tented darkness, and the torch offers a way to keep pace with a caravan of whispers, a way to distinguish safe passage from the trickster’s glare in a fogged pass. It isn’t about glittering ostentation; it’s about the confidence to keep going, the assurance that a path can be seen even when the wind gnaws at the edge of your vision. It’s a small, dependable glow that invites conversation with strangers who share the road and the hope of finding something true in the quiet between night and dawn. I found it again at Saddlebag Exchange, where the glow of lanterns softens the leather and brass of every traded item. The stall-keepers bargain with half-eyed smiles, weighing coin against memory, and the Strong Torch slides across the counter on a bed of warm coppery air. A modest price, sometimes four to six silver, depending on wear and the stubbornness of the flame. It’s enough to feel earned, a small vow kept in the pocket—light enough to carry, sturdy enough to keep its promise, bright enough to remind a traveler that even a single flame can guide a long way home.