Supreme Rune of Holding rests in the palm of my gloved hand, a disc the color of midnight after rain. Its face is a smooth obsidian sliver, about the size of a coin but thick with weight and intent. On its surface runes trace themselves with patient light—thin lines of silver thread that rearrange into constellations when you tilt it just so. The edges are beveled, like a well-loved tool that has seen a lifetime of use. When you hold it to the sun, the sigils awaken in a soft amber glow, and you feel a cool thrum, as if the world within your pockets remembered itself. Lore says it was forged by memory-keepers, artisans who bound the loose threads of fate to hardy metal, to keep what you carry from slipping away in a moment of courage or fear. Placed on a belt or tucked into a bag, the rune promises more than protection; it offers custody. In practice, it touches the balance between risk and return, clarifying what must be protected and what can be left behind. Travelers swear by it when hauling salvage from ruined camps or chest-locked caches, because its magic—subtle as a sigh—helps a bagful of loot feel less fragile, less tempting to careless hands or a sudden skirmish. It is not flashy; it does its quiet work, like a ledger, keeping things whole long enough for the next decision. In the field, the rune also becomes a quiet reminder: when a pack grows heavy and a decision looms, its presence invites patience, not recklessness. I walked into the market lanes at dusk, where the air tastes of tar and resin, pine resin sharpening the senses, and found a stall with stacks of runes like coins in a well-lit drawer. The Supreme Rune of Holding lay there among bundles, catching the lanterns with a patient gleam. The price rose and fell in whispers before the seller named a figure that made the crowd murmur in appreciation. It wasn’t simply a piece of gear, but a promise that a long journey could end with a chest intact rather than looted. Buyers haggled with the knowledge that the rune could keep something as mundane as a spare coil of rope or as priceless as a map fragment safe from the world’s sudden demands. Word travels quickly here—the rumor moves on boot heels and clink of coin. People speak of the rune not just as a tool, but as a chapter in a larger narrative: a small artifact that links every caravan, every campfire, every midnight decision about what to carry forward. If you want to know where such things meet a market story, listen to Saddlebag Exchange when a rare sheen of gold glints in candlelight and someone asks whether it’s worth the risk of carrying a legend at your side. They’ll tell you value isn’t only in power, but in what you choose to take, and what you leave behind when dawn arrives. Its glow lingers in memory after the coins have cooled.