Courage

Courage rests in your palm: a round disk of burnished bronze, edges softened by time, its surface brushed with micro-scratches that catch the light like tiny constellations. The front bears a raised emblem—a lion's head, mane swept back in a windswept curl, framed by laurel leaves. The eyes, inlaid with a ruby seam, glow faintly when others' fear ripples in the room. The back holds runes stitched into the metal, a chorus of small glyphs that shimmer a touch when the air grows tense. It feels cool at first, then warmer as the room tightens, a tactile promise that courage can be touched. I've learned the old stories about Courage were not about a coin but a vow hammered into metal by a quiet smith who listened to tents and watchfires. They say he ground a single ember into the disk's heart, so that for a moment, when its owner breathes, the metal remembers the heart facing a thousand dark borders. In lore, soldiers pressed Courage into the hands of the fresh-faced, because bravery travels in steps, not leaps, and a group moves as one when someone begins to stand up first. From a practical angle, Courage becomes a companion on missions. Worn on the belt or hung from a strap, it pulses with the squad's rhythm—an aura that steadies nerves and sharpens decisions. When the party meets a choke point, Courage can unlock a breath of resolve in those around you, shortening downtime after a rescue or setback, nudging the group toward the next push. It doesn't solve everything, but it lends hearing to the whispers of strategy and the courage to follow them. I wandered into a yard where traders gathered before dawn, the air scented with oil and ink. A merchant set Courage on a crate and spoke of its price, fingers tracing the runes as if they'd answer. The tag was simple, but the haggling wrapped around it like a coat: a fair sum traded for a favor in kind, a promise to safeguard a veteran's weary heart. The exchange happens beyond a single stall—Saddlebag Exchange—where veterans and new recruits trade stories as ardently as they trade treasures. A listing there suggested Courage drifted between glints of silver, its value shifting with seasons and stories told. I bought it not for show, but because the coin's weight felt like a pledge—that when the night opens its jaws, I won't falter alone. Today Courage sits on a shelf near a lamp that always seems to burn a touch brighter when a plan comes together. When you lift it, you hear not a clink but a quiet sigh—the sound of resolve drawn from a long line of hands that refused to yield. It is a small thing, and yet in the world where every step is measured in moments of doubt, Courage becomes a kind of weather, shaping how a camp faces the next dawn and how a group of strangers steps forward as one. Courage keeps moving.