Assassin's Tengu Echo Torch rests in my palm, a slender ebony shaft carved with feathered ridges that catch light as it turns. A glass capsule at the top holds a living ember, pale blue and restless, humming with a rhythm my heartbeat seems to borrow. A tengu mask sits in relief along the butt, its beak sharpened into a quiet knife-edge; lacquered wood catches hints of red whenever the flame breathes. When lit, the flame does more than burn; it breathes back, stuttering and replying in soft afterimages that drift along my vision, like echoes of a whispered name. Legends tie it to the Silent Feather Brotherhood, who moved through mountain passes and shadowed bazaars with the same quiet grace as snowfall. They swore the torch could reflect the quarry's path, tracing footsteps in the air as if the flame remembered every shadow it touched. In practice, assassins used it to scout—casting a pale glow that doesn’t scorch, piercing veils of mist, revealing tripwires etched into doorframes, and guiding a hunter through the dark without giving away their own presence to watchful guards. In the days when markets were stitched by caravans, the Tengu Torch became more than a tool; it was a signal, a badge of trust, a memory between allies who spoke in whispers and burned with the same ember. Across adventures, the artifact's significance isn't just illumination; when unlit, it sits cool and quiet on your belt. When sparked, its glow travels along the ground in a soft line that helps you time takes, leaps, and line-of-sight. It can reveal faint glyphs carved into walls or puzzling runes left by explorers. And the echo in its name isn't only lore—the flame's afterimages mimic your movements, aiding misdirection in stealthy engagements or distracting pursuers long enough for a precise strike or a quiet exit. Many carry it for night skirmishes, using it to mark a target for a partner's assault or to guide a retreat through alleys where lanterns would betray you. The history clings to your wrist as you weave through crowds, a reminder that every shadow has a story and every plan leaves a trace. When a trader negotiates, Saddlebag Exchange scrolls through the market like a map. A well-kept Assassin's Tengu Echo Torch tends to fetch a tidy sum—perhaps a few gold coins in a busy week, or more during festival season when demand spikes. Traders wax about its condition, the purity of the ember, the legibility of the tengu relief, and whether the glass is crack-free. A seller might ask a premium for a torch whose echo lingers longer, whose afterimages flicker with unusual clarity. I watched a sale hinge on a single bid, the price climbing as a caravan paused to listen to the torch's whisper. In the end, the buyer walked away with something more than metal and flame; they claimed a memory, a compass for choosing paths in the dark. Its glow keeps guiding me through darkness, one echo at a time.