Memory of Battle

Memory of Battle sits in my palm: a circular disk, two fingers across, its surface a lacquered obsidian gloss ringed by delicate copper sigils that coil and unwind like smoke. The texture is cool and glassy at first touch, then warm as if a cold room breathing with the breath of someone long gone. Within the center a faint amber glow pools and shifts, as if a captured memory pressed against the surface, waiting for someone to lift the veil. The edges are chipped with small bursts of bronze that catch light and send it trickling along the engraving, a map of a siege whispered across its face. Lore says it carries a echo of a commander who rode at the front lines during a forgotten assault, the memory sealed by a ward weavers carved from bone and resin so it cannot be meddled with by curious hands. When you tilt it toward the sun, the sigils seem to rearrange themselves, telling you a story you did not know you needed to hear. In practice the Memory of Battle acts as more than a trinket; it threads its way into the rhythm of combat. Held up when the world seems to tilt and the march of foes closes in, it hums with a cold brightness and grants a brief sharpening of perception. A fighter feels the weight of past decisions fall into place, as if the strategy of that long-dead general slides into their own lungs and hands. For a moment, timing lands cleanly, gaps close, and hesitation dissolves into motion. Some wielders claim it also strengthens the bond between body and blade, lending a ghostly endurance that lets you weather one more exchange before your stamina wavers. It is not a cure, but a reminder that every cut you trade is part of a longer, louder narrative. Markets murmur about it as well as the fighting. You might find Memory of Battle tucked beneath the stalls of traders hawking relics and runed glass, where gossip travels faster than coins. Saddlebag Exchange, a crowded lane of caravan wagons and lantern-light, is where a curious buyer can test the glow, trade stories, and bargain the price. The memory’s value shifts with mood and rumor—clean specimens fetch a higher price after a victorious season, while scarred ones go for less but offer a rougher honesty. A seller might ask a few gold more for a disk whose amber core still pulses with quiet courage; a careful buyer will counter with a tale of battles survived and a trade that feels fair. Holding Memory of Battle, you carry more than a mechanism for power: you carry a record of the world’s oldest fights, a rumor you can wear, and a reminder that every win owes its shape to the memory of someone who fought before you. Its echo lingers in markets, in campfires, in workshops where veterans and apprentices compare scars and swap stories about battles that forged them and pass memory forward.