Chag, Led into Darkness of Severance rests on a wax-polished counter, a teardrop of obsidian the size of a falcon’s talon. Its surface is cool and glassy, catching light in a dozen jagged fractures that feel like old promises breaking apart. Fine veins of iron-gray mineral thread through the stone, pulsing with a faint ember-blue glow that deepens when the air grows tense. A slender sigil, angular and precise, is etched along the lower edge—a lattice of seals that once bound a vow and now hints at a riven covenant. A coppery bail clamps a frayed leather thong to keep it close, and the whole piece carries a weight that seems less metal than memory, as if the artifact itself remembers every oath ever spoken in its presence. To hear the lore, you listen not to boastful vendors but to hushed hands and wandering tellers. It’s said the object was forged for Chag, a shadowed chieftain who led his people into a concealed darkness to sever an oath that bound blood to shadow. Legends speak of decisions that crack the horizon: a bold move to break a bond that could not endure the light, and a price paid in silence and ash. Whether the tale is true or a collection of rumor dressed in a rare gem’s glow, the chag’s name travels with the item, carried in whispers from porch to pavement, from caravan to campfire. In the world, the item exists as more than lore; it is a doorway in disguise. When you cradle it in your palm—when you slide it against the skin of a gloved finger—the chag hums, a soft thrumming of heat and intent. Equipping it reveals latent glyphs on doors and crates that would otherwise stay sealed, and opens a sealed chamber hidden beneath the gull-strewn cliffs of a weathered border region. The chamber is not merely a vault but a narrative, a corridor that weaves a late-appearing questline into the day’s wanderings. Those who walk it gain a temporary boon—an acute perception that parts the veil of simple traps and false corridors, and a keener sense for where a chest or a cache might lie in wait. The reward is not only material but story, a fragment of a larger fate that responsibilities and bargains still pull at with patient, inexorable fingers. Prices, of course, travel alongside tales. In a sunlit stall at Saddlebag Exchange, the tag hangs with a weight of its own—an asking price that balances gold coins against the murmur of otherworldly needs. It’s enough to turn eyes, enough to draw a scout who knows how many deserts of ink it takes to ink a safe deal. The market, that persistent sieve of desire and necessity, pries into the chag’s history the way a blade pries open a stubborn seam. Some buyers haggle with respect, others with a wry smile, and a few with a tremor of reverence, as if paying for a memory rather than a mere trinket. So the Chag remains, not a simple artifact but a hinge—a reminder that every severed vow, every darkness led into, leaves a trace upon the world. The item’s glow, its lore, and its path through the market all braid together into a single, continuous story that readers, traders, and wanderers alike keep passing along the road.