The Godswalk Enchiridion rests on the table like a found relic: a compact tome bound in saddle-brown leather, its cover embossed with intertwining sigils that catch the light as if a chapel candle trembles in a draft. The texture is a palimpsest of wear—grain rubbed smooth under the thumb, a seam of copper thread along the spine, and corners darkened from years of service. Its pages are thin, almost translucent, edged with a faded gold that tilts toward orange in lamplight. The ink has bled into the fibers, making each letter stubborn and deliberate, as if the book took its own time to decide what to reveal. When opened, a faint cedar-smoke scent rises, as if a long corridor of pilgrims exhaled into this room. Margins bear tiny scribbles—junctions of routes and prayers sketched by someone who walked many miles with it—while a central wheel symbol, the sign of the Godswalk, turns in a slow, patient circle across the title page. Legends say it was bound by a small guild of caravan scribes who rode the Godwalk through loosened roads and shadowed gatehouses, recording glimpses of sanctuaries that refuse to stay still. The Enchiridion, they whispered, does more than tell a story; it listens. Its verses align with actual places in the world, guiding those who read it toward hidden shrines, forgotten archives, and the tremor of something older than any city. In the field, the book functions as a living map and a ceremonial key: not merely a collectible, but a companion that nudges a traveler toward choices that matter. A reader may unfurl a page to discover a path through a ruined temple, or a note that nudges a quest toward meeting a quiet scribe in a river town. Those who carry it speak of small, almost negligible effects—a momentary clarity, a better sense of direction in fog—enough to turn a routine run into a pilgrimage. In markets and camps, its presence ripples through the story as well. Traders whisper that an Enchiridion can be traded, bartered, or bargained over; the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a stage for its price drama, where rumors of scarcity meet the steady pulse of demand. A well-traveled dealer might price it with a stubborn insistence, while a newcomer offers something plain in exchange for the chance to hold it and listen to its pages sigh. The price, like the journey it promises, shifts with season and faith, but the value never truly rests. For those who have read its margins, the Godswalk Enchiridion is more than a book; it is a reminder that every step is part of a longer, shared road.