Relic of Thorns rests on the worn varnish of a market stall, a circular disk the color of burnt honey, its surface a map of living vines. Fine, needle-thin lines trace all around the edge, each thorn carved with patient care until they seem to tremble under the lamplight. When you tilt it, a faint green glimmer blooms at the center, like a seed waking in spring. The texture is cool and slightly rough, as if the relic had scrabbled its way out of soil and kept the touch of rain. Local legends tie it to the Thorn-wrought order that once kneeled in shadowed groves; some say the relic remembers every oath sworn among the brambles, listening for the right words to awaken. On the battlefield, the relic breathes a prickly aura. Worn as a trinket on a chain, it trains the attention of foes who would reach for you; melee swings seem to meet a thorny shield that returns a glancing sting, not enough to end a fight, but enough to remind attackers that the forest does not forget. In practical terms, it is prized for its Thorns effect, capable of turning a rush into a costly misstep. Players discover that wearing it with sturdy armor can turn skirmishes into a chess match: the moment a strike lands, enemies pay a small price for their knowledge of your reach. For rangers and guardians, for those who hold the line, it becomes more than a trinket; it becomes a narrative thread, a whispered incentive to stand your ground while the world bends to your will. Market days thread through the caravans and cobblestones, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the relics move with a rumor's speed. I watched a robed trader name 'Stonecarver May' lift the relic from its velvet cradle and lay it on the counter, explaining that the thornwork around the edges can intensify under certain conditions—moonlit nights or when you carry a sprig of resin from a protected grove. The bargaining that followed felt like a rite in itself; price tags drifted from two gold to a touch under five, depending on the buyer’s faith in the whisper that accompanies the thorn. Saddlebag Exchange did not just list a number; it told a story about supply and desire, about who holds the map to hidden groves and who can read the relic’s runes in a candle’s glare. I walked away with the sense that the price was less about wealth and more about the trust between buyer and the grove’s memory. That memory lingers as the relic slips beneath my shirt, the weight a reminder that power in this world is not in force alone but in the quiet courage to let something sharp do its work. Maybe the relic's future is not a single battle but a quiet vigil. Each night the brambles on its edge drink the damp air as if waiting for the next traveler to listen to the grove and choose to stand firm. Stand firm; listen for the grove. If you carry the Relic of Thorns into a camp under siege or through a treacherous jungle, and you feel the forest listening, waiting for your next choice. It promises companionship with restraint, and a patient defense. Carry the Relic of Thorns into a camp under siege or through a treacherous jungle, and you feel the forest listening, waiting for your next choice. It promises companionship with restraint, and a patient defense.