Glyph of the Crucible (Unused) rests on the desk like a coin of heat and ash—a thin, obsidian disk chipped at the edges, its surface lacquered in a coppery sheen that seems to breathe with a faint ember glow when the light hits it right. The glyph is small enough to lie almost invisible in the palm, yet the moment you cradle it you can feel the old furnace rhythm thrumming through the stone, as if the thing itself had listened to a kiln’s sigh for centuries. Fine sigils curl along its face, delicate as spiderwork, with lines that shift from copper to low red as if the metal remembers being fed with flux and flame. On the backside, a shallow notch suggests it once fit into a larger mechanism—some clamp, some forge-night contraption that would coax it to sing. The texture is cool and smooth at first touch, then grainy with the memory of heat, like a breath caught in glass during a long, careful tempering. Lore ties it to the Crucible’s era of iron and argument—the legendary workshop where master smiths tried to teach metal to speak. This glyph, many say, was a prototype, a test piece meant to unlock a temperament in steel rather than merely mark it. It is called unused not because it lacks purpose, but because no master ever sanctioned its power for general use. Some legends whisper that a failed ritual left behind more smoke than symbol, that several of these glyphs were abandoned along the shattered shelves of a dismantled forge before any blade could drink their fire. Others insist it was never intended for weapons at all, but to temper loyalty in a cohort, to seal a pact with flame and oath. The truth, like many things forged in the dark, is elusive; the glyph glows with a memory that refuses to be kneaded into a neat origin story. In practical terms, this is a curiosity that feels almost tool-less and priceless at once. Its presence in a hoard would signal a collector’s breath held tight, a whisper in a tavern that a rare prototype once hummed in a workshop’s kiln. If a smith ever worked with it, the result would have been more than a mere statistic on a page—an aura that could tint a weapon’s edge with heat even when the forge lay cold, a momentary dance of light along runes carved to catch the eyes of those who knew to look. It’s the kind of relic that makes players pause in a market square and imagine a world where plans went differently, where the Crucible’s fire found a permanent home in steel. Market chatter rounds out the tale, too. In the cluttered stalls and caravan yards, prices drift with rumor and the season’s dust. Saddlebag Exchange—the long rows of portable shops and coin-purses that follow the road’s appetite for oddities—listings for the Glyph of the Crucible (Unused) appear between ledger pages and weathered maps, priced not only for metal and labor but for legend. A buyer might barter for a handful of coins and a story, or trade a rarer scrap of ore for a chance to cradle the glyph and pretend, even if only for a moment, that fire itself could be coaxed to listen. So it sits, unbound and eloquent, a relic that speaks in whispers of heat and restraint—a little flame waiting for a moment to remember.