Ember Infusion sits in a small, palm-sized vial of tempered glass, its surface catching the light like a smoldering coal tucked behind a jewel. The liquid inside glows with a slow, living orange—not neon, but the intimate heat you feel through a glove on a cold day. The glass is cool to the touch, yet the seal is warm enough to leave a faint haze on your fingers, as if you’ve brushed against a little sun that refuses to fade. A copper cap bears a runic outline of a twisting flame, and the neck is etched with micro-scribbles that look almost like ember smoke held in place. It isn’t merely pretty; it feels almost alive, as if it carries a memory of the heat that forged it. Lorekeepers tell of a furnace-lit pact between smiths and the old, patient spirits of the kiln, a ritual where metal and magic were coaxed into glow, and Ember Infusion is the last echo of that bond—a drop that remembers the night the volcano slept and the sparks spoke in a language of warmth and defense. Held in the palm, Ember Infusion radiates a quiet warmth, a texture you can almost feel with your mind as much as your skin. It’s not sticky or slick, but dry and resin-scented, with flecks of ash-like dust that settle on your gloves whenever you tilt it toward a torch. The vial’s glow isn’t a showpiece for the shelf; it’s a promise you can hold, a tool with a story threaded through its care. When you break the seal and tip the contents into a griping flame or onto a weapon’s surface, the room seems to lean closer—the air hums with a hungry kind of heat, like a forge catching wind on a winter noon. In the world, Ember Infusion isn’t just a decorative ember; it’s a practical talisman for those who tread tight paths—mountain passes slick with rain and ash, ruins where heat is your ally and fear is your foe. Applied to gear, it lends a burn-bright edge to the wearer’s presence, granting a temporary bloom of heat that unsettles foes and steadies hands in the heat of close combat. Soldiers, scouts, and crafters alike keep a vial or two tucked into their belts, because in a caravan or a siege, a little warmth can be a difference-maker between a quick retreat and a hard-won dawn. It’s the kind of infusion that makes sense in a world where craft and courage are traded like coin—the ember in your pocket that can melt frost and fear at the same time. Pricing, of course, ebbs and flows like the river of lava that sometimes feeds the Ember regions. Traders speak of a reliable baseline—priced in silver or occasionally a careful barter of goods—but you feel the price more in the eyes of the seller and the clock in the market’s bell than on any ledger. On a good day, you find Ember Infusion in the Saddlebag Exchange, tucked between coil and charm, priced with a practiced nod to scarcity and desire. The exchange is more than a stall; it’s a crossing of routes, a place where a traveler’s need meets a smith’s memory of heat, and where Ember Infusion becomes part of a larger story—one of resilience, of work, of keeping the flame alive in the cold hands of the world. Ember Infusion is not merely a thing you carry; it is a spark that continues a long, shared legend of warmth in a land that never forgets the forges.