Shard of the Homestead rests warm in the palm, a teardrop of glass the color of dried honey, facets catching candlelight and throwing a dozen miniature suns across the wall. Its surface is sleek as a well-used tool, yet the edges bear a measured grain, like wood that has learned to endure heat and rain. Along one side a tiny sigil—a roofed house with a gentle, protective arch—is carved so deeply that it invites your fingertip to trace it, and when you tilt the shard just right the sigil seems to breathe, as if the memory of a long-remembered place answers your touch. There is a scent of resin and rain around it, and a warmth that doesn’t come from heat but from story: every tale ever told of a village built from driftwood and dew clinging to the Homestead, every winter stew and field line pressed into the glass. In the world where it travels, the shard is more than a trinket; it is a keystone. When slotted into the centerpiece of a personal home or guild hall’s hearth, it awakens the room's quiet potential. A ripple opens a dedicated workshop bench, a little grove of planters, and a farm stand that can be tended by the owner’s own hands rather than by accident of luck. It doesn’t just decorate; it calls forth the memory of care—how a place is kept, how a roof shields the next harvest, how a hearth invites neighbors to linger. Players speak of it as a seed that grows into a small, living piece of homestead lore: the shard makes possible seasonal decor, seeds that sprout into herbs for recipes, or textures for walls that change with the passing of the moons. Price and value drift through the market like a tide. Traders speak in hushed tones of demand, of builders who want a reminder of roots, of crafters who prize the shard for its ability to weave a home’s story into the center of a room. It’s not something you snag for a quick profit; it’s a promise you keep, a memory you lend to your space. On the waterfront lanes of Divinity’s Reach and Lion’s Arch alike, the Saddlebag Exchange shares a table with stouts and stencils, a ledger of what a shard can bring to a hall. A coin here, a handful of mats there, and suddenly the Homestead becomes less a relic and more a living contract between keeper and kin. And so the shard travels, like a whispered rumor, from workshop to doorway, from the quiet back room to the bright center of a crowd. It reminds the owner that a home isn’t simply shelter but a tapestry—a living artifact threaded with the hands of those who tend it, and the hands of those yet to come. The Shard of the Homestead keeps that promise in its glow: a fragment that invites, protects, and endures. In small towns and crowded markets alike, it quietly rewrites a space's purpose today.