Scarlet's Kiss rests in a shallow velvet-lined tray, a ring whose band is burnished pewter and whose centerpiece is a deep crimson opal that swallows light and spits it back in a slow, patient glow. The surface is cool to the touch, smooth as a whisper, yet along the outer edge delicate sigils coil like a wound thread of fire, catching on candlelight and turning it into a murmured song of runes. The gem itself looks almost alive: a heartbeat caught in glass, a wet rose blooming against the metal, with a heat that travels to the knuckle when you slip it on. Lore clings to this small circle of metal and stone as tenaciously as its own scent—the scent of iron and old ink, of secret chambers and a kiss that changed the course of a night. They say Scarlet Briar wore it when she sealed a vow with a fading ally, a kiss that granted a dangerous mercy and drew a line in the map of this world. Some believe the ring carries the memory of that moment, a memory that wakes whenever the wearer is faced with a choice between mercy and ruin. Others insist the sigils on the band awaken only to blood and shadow, guiding the wearer toward paths best left untraveled. In practice, the relic is more than myth. In the wilds that thread through human markets and ruined keeps, Scarlet's Kiss hums with potential for the right bearer. The ring heightens a certain subtle cunning, sharpening a wearer’s perception of who is honest and who is merely patient; it can nudge a quest forward by revealing a hidden latch in a temple wall or coax a reluctant ally to speak a name that unlocks a chain of events. It does not grant raw power so much as it lends a quiet, dangerous clarity to decisions, a kind of moral compass that points toward consequences long after the moment has passed. Pilgrims, scavengers, and scholars who know the old routes understand that finding the ring is only the first step; learning how to listen to what it asks of you—that is where the journey becomes a story you tell at the firelight. Pricing and exchange, of course, is a language of its own. I learned that soft lesson at Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-laced market where traders lay out glistening shards of ore beside old maps and whispered rumors. The ring drew a crowd, and a sharp-eyed broker coaxed me to name a price, a ritual of haggling that felt as old as the ring itself. We settled on an amount that left room for a future swap—the idea that Scarlet's Kiss might one day be put to a different use by someone who learns to listen to its heartbeat rather than simply wear it.