The Mighty Soft Wood Torch sits on the table like a small, stubborn beacon. Its shaft is a stout, unassuming piece of soft wood, pale as new birch, with a grain that curls gently along its length. A leather thong is wrapped near the head, not for ornament but to settle the grip in dusty fingers. The head itself is a shallow bowl carved from the same wood, cut to hold a tallow-filled wick, and when lit, the flame rises with a quiet, determined breath. The surface bears little knots and weathering marks, a texture that invites a hand to rub away the soot and feel the warm pulse of its heart. There is a lore whisper in the way the flame flickers—as if the torch were listening to something just beyond sight, perhaps to the old forests where the soft wood grows, or to the caravans that once slept in its light, counting coin by coin as the night crept in. The color of the glow is a steady gold, leaning toward amber, with a halo that seems to lengthen the night rather than merely illuminate it. It’s the kind of torch that doesn’t demand attention, yet in the dark you feel a hundred nights guiding the road. It travels with me as a companion in the narrow passages of cliff towns and along river markets, a reliable breath of warmth when the wind bites at the collar. Light is not just light here but a signal—an unspoken invitation to stop and listen, to share a story with the merchant who keeps her stock inside a canvas tent. The Mighty Soft Wood Torch is celebrated not for flair but for staying lit when others falter, and that steadiness makes it indispensable for fieldwork, mapping a cavern, or keeping a camp’s soft glow from waking the night creatures that haunt mountain trails. In crafting circles it’s prized for its clean burn and the way it accepts a little oil or resin, letting the flame stubbornly hold its own against the draft. And in glassy-eyed markets or at a quiet docks, the torch becomes a small instrument of barter— a simple thing that can open bigger doors, since a light source is often the first thing a caravan needs to move at dawn or to keep watch from a tower's shadow. At Saddlebag Exchange, the street’s heartbeat slows as a wiry trader unspools a tale of soft wood from northern groves, the kind that grows dense with patience. The price sits in silver coins, not copper, a mark of the torch’s “mighty” claim and the trust that its flame will prove true when the night bites down hardest. It’s a fair trade, the kind that leaves both buyer and seller with a memory of warmth rather than a mere receipt. I walk away with one, the head still warm, and pocket the rest, knowing that the torch will serve as more than a flame — it becomes the first friend in a new chapter of the road, a way to tell a story without words, the kind that travels ahead of us, lighting the steps we haven’t yet walked.