Polyluminescent Undulating Infusion (Orange) sits in the palm like a tiny, living sunset trapped in glass. Its capsule is a choked breath of warmth: a smooth orb walled with a slight, almost organic texture, as if the surface itself were breathing, faintly rippled with each heartbeat of the wearer. Inside, the orange core sways in lazy ellipses, a microcosm of flame that never quite settles, shifting from tangerine to pale gold as you tilt it toward the light. The glass carries a faint tremor, a whisper of currents moving through something that seems both fluid and solid at once—the way heat feels when it curls around a coal. Run your fingers over its surface and you’ll notice how the tint seems to rise with your pulse, a subtle chromatic tide that promises more than mere color. The orange doesn’t shout; it hints. In certain angles it fans out a soft halo, and in others it narrows to a single bright seam along the core, like a line of dawn threaded through a night-black composition. It’s not just glow; it’s rhythm—the sense that the infusion is listening to its bearer as if the thing itself has learned a tempo from their steps. It’s easy to imagine a craftsman’s hand guiding those undulations, coaxing a response from the stone, the metal, the air around it, as if the orange were a captured reflection of some long-ago sun in a vault of memory. Lore isn’t shy about the orange’s origins. Tales tell of sun-smiths who wove light into objects so receivers could carry a fragment of a brighter world with them. They spoke of embers that never quite burn out, of rituals where light moved through pigment and glass the way a river carves stone. The Polyluminescent undulates not merely as a rare cosmetic, but as a nod to those sun-prayers and their stubborn faith that color itself can be a tool, a ward, a companion. In the right hands, the infusion becomes a quiet chorus behind the draw of a breath, a tactile reminder that the wearer and the world around them share a single, shifting glow. In practice, the Orange version is prized for what it does without shouting. People collect it for the aura it lends to gear, for the way it makes a helm look like a sunset hung in a pocket universe, for the way weapons and armor seem to hum with a softer, warmer edge when it’s attached. It’s said to encourage focus in the heat of battle and to let the user feel the room as a single living organism rather than a crowd of moving parts. Beyond aesthetics, many purchases carry more than a vanity—infusions are part of a story, a mark of journey and discovery, a token of exchange between hands that recognize a shared curiosity about light’s practical magic. Speaking of trade, the market tells its own tale. A few merchants I passed along the way whispered about the Orange infusion’s value shifting with demand, stories of travelers who kept it in a well-traveled satchel, then traded it for a night’s shelter or a rare component. Saddlebag Exchange buzzed with those conversations—the kind of cadence where a price becomes a rumor, then a promise. A bright, fluctuating price, sometimes a coin-sum of several gold for pristine specimens, sometimes a trade-portion of seeds and charms. I watched a courier barter one for a map inked with old routes, and I heard a kid’s laugh when another buyer offered a favor in return for a skip of the line. The Orange infusion isn’t just something you buy; it’s something you carry, and carry forward, into the next dawn you’re brave enough to chase.