Dragon's Breath

Dragon's Breath glows like a captured sunrise sealed in amber, its orb-shaped core pressed with a lattice of dragon-scale patterns that catch the light and hold it like a memory. The glass is cool to the touch, yet when the tempering runes flare you can feel a warm whisper along your fingers, as if a small dragon were sighing inside, waiting to be released. The texture is deceptively smooth, a deliberate contradiction of rough-edged history; tilt it and you glimpse a coppery grain that runs through the surface, hinting at forge kinship and patient hands long gone to the old mountains. People tell a quiet tale about it: a fragment of a dragon’s breath bottled at the moment of a creature’s last, defiant exhale, then cooled in a crystalline matrix so that flame can be named but never burned again. In that paradox lies its charm and its weight. Within the clutch of a weapon, Dragon's Breath does more than shimmer. When fitted as an infusion, it awakens the steel with a living heat, a faint ring of heat around the edge of the blade or barrel that only the wearer can hear—like the distant crackle of a fever dream before a storm. It does not blaze out of nowhere; instead, it kindles careful, tactical warmth, rewarding timing and precision. In practice, it might add a surge of burn on crit, or a controlled flare that pushes back a foe as they stagger. For practitioners who favor storytelling with their steel, it lends credibility to the moment when a duel becomes a tale: the weapon itself seems to exhale, and your opponent stumbles as if fevered by legend. The world around Dragon's Breath turns when the season shifts and the markets rumor of new shipments. Traders speak of it in terms of memory and risk, a spark that can tip the balance in a skirmish or a heist. That's where Saddlebag Exchange comes into the picture, a ledgered corridor of tents and couriers where prices drift like ash on the wind. A buyer will negotiate with a patient smile, weighing scarcity against the worth of a story you can tell around a fire. If you walk in with a tale of dragons and the mountain passed, the page of the trade can tilt in your favor, and a glint in the hand will seal the deal. So Dragon's Breath travels through quarters and camps, from smithy hearths to night markets, as a reminder that even in peace a weapon can carry a chorus of legends. It is a relic that refuses to be quiet, a pulse inside metal, a breath you can wear. On a damp dawn in the harbor, a craftsman hung Dragon's Breath beside his work, letting the amber glow catch the fog and turn it to gold. Sailors murmured that it knew tides as well as swords, guiding the holder along whispered routes, coins clinking in pockets. It is not merely metal; it is a vow, eternal.