Glyph of the Unbound (Unused) lies flat on a lacquered desk, a slate-gray tile the size of a small palm, edges stubbornly chipped by years of neglect and use. Its face is smooth as glass, save for a central sigil that seems to breathe faintly under lamplight—two interlocking crescents looping into a spark of pale blue glyphs that drift and settle as you blink. The texture feels cool and almost mineral, like a shard broken from a frost-laced riverbed, with a whisper-thin frostline that crawls along the runes when the room grows colder. If you lean close, the runes catch the eye in their own language, a script some scholars say predates the common tongue, a fragment of a larger system meant to untie what is stubbornly bound. It is said the Unbound were once meant to break loose a restrained power, a design scrawled by hands that trusted magic enough to leave it unfinished—hence the tag that history slapped onto it: Unused. People speak of it in tones between reverence and curiosity. The glyph feels like a doorway left ajar, a potential door to memory or motive that never quite opened. In its quiet, the porcelain glaze of the surface reflects not just light but intention—an intention that feels almost skittish, as if the glyph is aware of the attention it draws and would rather be left alone. The lore whispered among scribes suggests the glyph was carved during the waning days of a once-widely feared restraint on magic, a period when scholars and artisans argued about the ethics of unbinding power from its moorings. Some say it was a prototype, a draft version abandoned when the council feared what would happen if such a release were ever truly attempted. Others insist it was never meant to be used at all, a relic kept for study rather than rite. In the world’s ongoing chess game of supply and demand, the glyph has a reputation for being more than just a collectible. It is a symbol of what might have been—a placeholder for a ritual that would have allowed a blade or amulet to momentarily shed its tether to an order, a grant of freedom that came at a price. Players and artisans imagine what could have happened if the Unbound thread had been pulled. Some fringe crafters have theorized that if paired with the right conduit, the glyph could have released a bolus of latent energy, or reawakened a sealed memory within a relic. Until such a day arrives, the Unused tag remains a story, a caution, a lure. Market whispers drift through the stalls and into the back rooms of the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade in rumor as much as in merchandise. A note on a battered ledger, drawn with the glyph’s image, hints at a price—often quoted in careful, rounded gold—the kind of figure that signals serious curiosity rather than casual interest. The price fluctuates with the mood of collectors and the scarcity of pristine samples, but the consensus is clear enough: this is a piece of unfinished history, coveted precisely because it never fulfilled its intended purpose. And so the Glyph of the Unbound (Unused) sits, a quiet beacon in a market of stories, waiting for a reader bold enough to imagine the doorway it was meant to open.