Gate of Good-Byes of Severance

The Gate of Good-Byes of Severance stands on a carved pedestal, a miniature doorway forged from blackened brass and inlaid with veins of pale astra-lace runes that glitter when the air grows cold. Its surface is as smooth as glass, cool to the touch, with bite-sized knobs that yield a soft, almost reluctant creak when you push them. The whole thing carries a scent of rain-washed stone and old parchment, as if it had wandered out of a forgotten oath. Lore whispers that the gate was hammered into being by a circle known as the Good-Byes, guardians who ferried souls from one chapter of life to the next, severing ties with a vow that no longer served. When light falls across its frame, you glimpse a corridor that might exist only in a dream—a doorway not to a place, but to a decision you wish to leave behind. In the field, the item is treated like a ceremonial key more than a tool of war. It is said to sever a single bond—maybe a curse’s grip, maybe a stubborn oath—long enough to let a traveler slip from pursuit or to reset a painful thread of a story. Experienced scavengers tell you that activating it requires a whispered name and a breath held tight, as though the gate itself must consent to the change. The effect, lore insists, is not to erase memory but to tilt the memory away from the thing it binds to, allowing one to walk forward with a lighter pack of regrets. Yet the price is written in the margins of every tale: for every severed tether, a new longing seeks a way back, and the gate may rust shut on a night when mercy is scarce. Traders and dreamers alike chase the Gate’s rumor through the markets, as if it were a thread to unraveling a whole garment of fate. I watched a dealer haggle beside the river where sails of canvas billow and lanterns glow like pale fireflies. He spoke softly of a price that shifts with the moon; one week a fortune, the next a story, depending on who carries the memory of the Good-Byes. In the Saddlebag Exchange, where curios and curses are cataloged, the gate’s value flickers as dependably as a starlit tide. A veteran merchant offered a rough tally—gold enough for a few nights’ shelter, plus a vow of discretion that could soothe a wary buyer. He warned that the gate’s true cost is not always silver but the trust you trade to keep your quiet. Tonight, the Gate rests on its pedestal, waiting for a new traveler to name the vow they wish to unbind. It is not a weapon so much as a hinge—an artifact that reminds us that even in a world of consequence, some endings begin with a choice, and some choices are shaped by a small, cold doorway that opens only when a heart dares to leave something behind. In the end, stories travel farther than steel.