The Major Sigil of Accuracy sits in my palm like a coin minted on a battlefield, a disc of hammered brass with a cool, even texture. At its center, a glassy circle of midnight-blue encases a delicate compass rose etched in fine silver threads; ravines of runic script curl along the rim, promising true aim to any willing to listen. The sigil has the weight of old victories, a memory pressed into metal, and when you tilt it, the blue seems to draw light toward its heart as if it were a beacon for the eye. On the road it’s not just ornament; it's a tool. Slotted into a weapon's sigil socket, it nudges the wielder toward precision, nudges the odds that a shot will break through armor and land where it matters. In practice, it doesn't scream with fireworks, but it answers a hunter's quiet question: can I trust this breath, this moment? Against flanking foes or siege-armor, the Major Sigil of Accuracy helps carve a path to the dot on the target rather than the air around it. The grind of metal, the whisper of a string, and then—confidence, a little more sure. There's a field-story that travels with it, too. A border town trades such sigils to mercenaries who guard the riverlands. A young scout named Kestrel carried one through a rain-soaked night, keeping her crossbow true as the market burned behind her. The sigil's memory seems to cling to the fletching and to the palm, guiding a shot that would otherwise be wasted. In that way, it doesn't merely boost numbers; it stitches a thread between fate and footfalls, between aim and outcome. Markets are full of whispers, and that's where Saddlebag Exchange enters the tale. I found mine tucked among boot polish and map cases, a stall where merchants bargain with weather-worn hands and eyes that have counted years of trades in coins and stories. The vendor spoke in a soft, deliberate tone about the Major Sigil of Accuracy—how it moves quietly with its owner, how its magic shifts with the draw of a bow or the breath of a marksman. We struck a simple bargain; a handful of coins traded for the disk, and a receipt printed on parchment that smelled faintly of oil and ink. The Saddlebag Exchange, it turns out, is a place where memory and metal trade places, where a single sigil can travel from a hunter to a guard—with the buyer's courage as part of the package. Back at the campfire, the sigil rests in its pouch, ready for the next hunt. The world doesn't end with a single shot, but it does bend toward a cleaner strike when accuracy is on your side. In those moments, as the wind stirs and the flame flickers, the Major Sigil of Accuracy remains more than metal: a small compass that keeps pointing to the true center of a target—hope, luck, and the stubborn luck of a practiced hand.