Major Sigil of Concentration lies in the palm like a coin of night and promise, a circular disk of tempered glass set in a slim rim of pale alloy. Its surface is a deep onyx that seems to drink the light, but the glyphs etched into it ripple with a quiet blue when you tilt it just so. The edge is finely beveled, smooth to touch yet stubbornly resistant to fingerprints, as if it wants you to notice the way the runes catch and release your gaze. In pockets of shade, the sigil’s markings glow faintly, a heartbeat of magic pressed into something you could lace into a belt or tuck into a pocket. Lore says it was born from the memory of scribes who learned to time their thoughts—an artifact crafted to keep a mind steady as a shield in the long winter sieges, when the world tightens and the noise of battle becomes a second weather system. In use, the Major Sigil of Concentration feels like a quiet companion rather than a weapon. Slotted into the sturdy notches of a belt or amulet, it becomes a hinge for the whole day’s plans; a hidden aid for those who must hold a line while danger closes in. When its wearer lands a hit, or whenever the rite of activation takes hold, the sigil channels a swift bloom of Concentration—a boon that makes the length and strength of other boons more stubborn, more stubbornly present in the fray. It doesn’t shout or blaze; it holds the field like a patient steward, allowing the party’s most important buffs to endure through flurries of offense and tempo shifts. The effect is subtle enough to be overlooked in the moment, yet decisive when the fight stretches longer than the first exchange. In the quiet minutes between skirmishes, you feel the sigil’s influence as your own focus deepens, your thoughts settling into one rhythm, your breath aligning with the cadence of the fight. Friends and rivals alike speak of its place in a larger story—a relic of a guild of sigil-smiths who traveled with caravans through shifting borders, trading not only wares but strategies for sustaining a battle’s pace. The sigil’s glow accompanies the memory of late-night planning by lantern light, when captains map routes through contested zones and scribes calculate enough water, food, and time to outlast the enemy. In those shared maps, Concentration is less a stat than a narrative thread: it binds the crew to their plan, to each other, to the moment when a single decision tips the balance. Market talk threads through the city as day commuters trade tales of value and risk. At Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where leather and parchment mingle with glistening coins, a Major Sigil of Concentration sits among other curios, its price a moving current that reflects demand, rarity, and the mood of the crowd. The vendor speaks in seasoned terms about dwindling stock and the why of a fair exchange, while a few hopeful buyers haggle with small joy and larger dreams. To hold it is to feel the world steady beneath your fingers, a reminder that even in the heat of a skirmish or a long march, concentration can be a weapon—and a calm you can carry home.