Dragon's Fang lies curled on a bed of moss-gray velvet, its ivory curve catching lamplight the way a candle catches a blade of frost. The tooth is substantial, notched along the edge where it once met dragon kingfisher jaws, and its surface breathes a faint, smoky warmth that almost smells of ash and old spice. The outer enamel has softened into a glazed sheen, like honeyed bone, with thread-thin striations that reveal its long, patient history. Along the base runs a copper-wrought cap, etched with a sigil that looks like an eye half-opened to the storm, as if the fang were not merely a relic but a doorway. When the light shifts, the faint flicker of red takes hold in the hollow of the root, as if the creature’s memory lingers, unwilling to fade. Lore whispers that this is more than a trophy of a done battle. Dragons mark their possessions with uncanny precision, and a fang carried across a caravan trail is said to bind luck to its bearer—a small flame in the chest that steadies a hand when the map is uncertain. Some tell of a pact-breaking moment when a wingbeat shed embers across the forge, and the Dragon's Fang drank those embers into its core, tempering its bite with the patience of ancient mountain winds. If you cradle it, you can almost hear a distant, dragon-sung echo—the slow inhale before a storm, the ground sighing under an old, powerful weight. It’s not a weapon so much as a sentinel, a fragment of a story that refuses to be forgotten. In practical terms, the Dragon's Fang has earned a place in the world’s working smithy and its perilous scavenger hunts. It’s valued as a rare crafting component, a key that can unlock a dragon-forged infusion when paired with the right catalysts and a patient, stubborn hand. For those who chase legends as eagerly as stats, it’s a bridge between memory and power: a material that makes a piece of gear feel heavier with meaning, not just heavier in cost. When paired in the right recipe, it lends a glow that isn’t simply cosmetic—an ember at the edge of vision that hints at a deeper, more volatile magic waiting to be coaxed into your next weapon or charm. Prices drift like smoke in a market where stories travel as fast as coin. I watched Saddlebag Exchange traders weigh the Fang in a small, weathered scale, the leather straps creaking as they balanced value against risk. One morning, the asking price hovered in a modest tier—two silvers and a few salvaged trinkets—while rumors of a fresh dragon sighting pushed it upward by a fraction. By late afternoon, the mood shifted; a cluster of buyers haggled with a practiced cadence, and the Fang moved toward three and a half silvers, plus a moon-touched bead, depending on the day’s wind and the caravan’s pace. It’s the sort of market where a single tale—of a dragon’s wingbeat over riverstone—can swing the line between a bargain and a treasure. And so the Dragon's Fang continues its quiet work, both tangible and tale-told, a small flame in a larger, living world.