Dragon's Wisdom rests in your hand like a relic that chose you, a small talisman that feels heavier with meaning than mass. It is teardrop-shaped and translucent, set in a frame of darkened bronze. Inside, a blue core glows faintly, a steady pulse that suggests something ancient dwelling just beneath the surface. The outer shell is etched with minute draconic runes—scales in relief, joints that catch the light as if a thousand wings were momentarily lifting. The texture is cool and smooth, yet there is a warmth that settles into your palm, as if a dragon’s breath had been bottled and pressed into stone. Lore says it was wrought from the breath of the first dragon and tempered into a keepsake that would outlive empires. To touch it is to hear a whisper of patient intelligence, the memory of a long, slow rise across a sky that never forgets. On market mornings the name Dragon's Wisdom travels with it, attached to gossip and trade rather than to statistics. Enchanters and scholars who carry it report that its blue core glows more brightly near dragon-scrolls and inscriptions, as if the stone is listening for a dragon’s handwriting. The stone does not grant brute power; instead, it clarifies: glyphs become legible, runes align with their own history, and a craftsman finds the precise temper for a blade that bears true draconic resonance. In quiet rooms it becomes a tutor, guiding a student toward the exact phrase that unlocks a hidden facet of a puzzle or a loom of ritual sigils for dragon-kind crafts. Saddlebag Exchange, with its restless stalls and coin-lit whispers, keeps the item moving through the world. Traders barter real coin against memory, and the Dragon’s Wisdom shifts in price with the tide of legends and the rhythm of dragon-events that sweep the markets. Some say it is worth a single gold late at night; others insist it commands more when a wyvern wheels overhead. It is a currency of consequence as much as of value, passed from hand to hand as travelers seek the right mentor, the right workshop, or the right altar to place it. In the street outside a harbor tavern a cartographer presses the talisman to the desk and smiles. “Power?” she asks softly. “Not the kind that roars; the kind that knows what to do next.” And the stone seems to glow a touch brighter, approving without shouting. Dragon's Wisdom is less a weapon than a map: it does not force a choice, it nudges a reader toward a path where choices reveal themselves in time. The world hums with the possibility of what could be learned, and the relic remains a quiet guide, a pocket-sized archive of scales, markets, and maps that travelers can hold, weigh, and trade. If you listen close, the old map still points toward meaning, toward a dawn that comes when you are ready to walk it. Some nights, the glow softens again, inviting a reader to listen for voices beyond memory and time.