Pulsing Brandspark rests in the palm of a scavenger's hand, a teardrop of glass framed by a lattice of brass and copper filigree. Its surface shivers with a soft, internal light—amber at the core that slips through cracks like honey, blue veins threading the edges, as if it were a narrow window into a living ember. The texture is cool and smooth, then unexpectedly warm where the glow concentrates, a heartbeat under the skin of the stone. The seller says the brandspark was forged in the first shadow of a dragon’s breath, when heat and memory met, and that the thin line of runic arcs around its rim was pressed by a remembered storm of old magic. When you cradle it, you feel a slight vibration, as though the artifact is listening for the right question to answer. In daylight markets, it hangs from a quiet chain, catching the glare of lanterns and turning it into a minute sun. Its light shifts with your breath, brightening when danger approaches and dimming when you pause to listen. The lore says it remembers every hand that has touched it, every bargain sealed by sweat and glittering coin, and that each pulse carries a thread of those stories forward into the buyer’s palm. Its true magic, however, lies in its use: not merely an ornament but a tool that breathes life into crafted work, a spark that awakens enchanted runes and fuses disparate materials into a stronger whole. Crafters prize it for the way it steadies temper in a forge, for the way it guides a sigil’s alignment, and for the way a single Brandspark can unlock a hidden facet of a weapon or a piece of armor. In a world where a blade is as much memory as metal, the brandspark acts as a small bright hinge, turning possibility into polish. The journey of the item is the world’s own rumor: a caravan routes through mountains, a rider trades it for a tale, and a guild sees in its glow a map to an old vault’s secret. Its presence shifts the market too, which is how I come to Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants huddle around coal-light stalls to weigh risk and reward. A particular seller points to the spark and names a price in glimmering shards, a valuation that climbs when price watchers sense scarcity and stories growing around it. There’s always a buyer in the crowd—a smith, a hunter, a wanderer with a bag full of promises—because the pulsar heartbeat of the brandspark promises more than jewelry: it promises a path, a chance to retell an ancient flame in a weapon’s edge, a way to push a character forward through a night of stories to be lived, not just told. Outside, the sun dips; the glow lingers on the palms of those who know its weight. In the end, such a spark is less a thing than a rumor you carry into every forge and doorway you choose to cross tonight.