Piece of Ambrite

Piece of Ambrite rests in the palm like a pocket of sunset. A shard of honeyed resin, the size of a thumbnail, with an irregular edge where the stone split centuries ago. Its surface is glassy but not smooth—facets catch the lantern glow and scatter it into tiny storms of gold. Inside, a soft green flame coils, as if a captured firefly slept within a jar of sunlit honey. Tilt it, and the glow drifts along faint veins that resemble old river routes, maps of a world that never quite stops moving. It feels warm to the touch, as if it remembered summers long ago, and there’s a whisper of friction when you rub its edge, like trying to polish a memory. Legends say ambrite was born where shore and star met, a residue of light that settled into resin when a comet rooted itself in a coastal forest. In the old quay houses, merchants wore such fragments as talismans, not merely for luck but to coax warmth back into a winter's night. In smithy records and city archives, Piece of Ambrite appears as more than ore. It’s described as memory-lock: when a craftsman binds it into a weapon or piece of armor, the wearer’s focus sharpens, and wounds feel less biting, if only for a time. The same glow can illuminate a sigil in the hands of an illusionist, or drive a lamp that never needs oil in a bazaar stall during a blackened storm. On the ground, the piece becomes more than jewelry or recipe component; it becomes a story engine. In the hands of a tinkerer, it channels ambient light into small, humming conduits that power lantern-horns on carts that ferry crates between districts. In a craftsman's shop, it lends a subtle resilience to leather and metal, enabling an infusion that makes gear cling to the wearer’s will for a handful of minutes. For explorers, a string of ambrite-chips can be threaded into a compass that glows brighter when the way gets lost. It’s not magic alone—it's a promise that light can be coaxed from stubborn stone, if the traveler knows where to look and who to ask. Prices drift in the open markets as surely as the tides. I traded scarab scales and a coastal map for a Piece of Ambrite, and the deal felt ceremonial until a vendor at Saddlebag Exchange counted coins—their silver glint bright enough to make the fragment seem modest by comparison. Locals say the true cost is a story you’re willing to tell in return: a quiet hour listening to an elder, a detour for a forgotten tool, a favor owed to a neighbor. Still, the going rate sits in a fair glare—enough to kindle lamps, warm a room, or earn a single piece that might outlast a winter. Piece of Ambrite is more than matter; it’s a quiet witness to the world, inviting you to tell your story each time you lift it and let it catch light. Its light keeps time with you, through every market, harbor, and road.