Authority glints under a lamp like a shield brightened after a long night, a broad sigil medallion hammered from dark steel. The edges bear micro-engraved glyphs that curl and unwind in impossible spirals, and in the center sits a cabochon of something between starless night and a held breath—a gemstone that shifts from coal to midnight-blue as you tilt it. The texture is cool and granular, the metal rough enough to catch your skin, yet smooth enough that it settles against your chest with a quiet insistence, as if it were a decision made long ago. If you listen, the lore threads itself through the patina: the Authority is said to have been forged by the Pact’s archivists to seal the terms of every uneasy treaty, worn by guild captains who calmed mobs and diplomats who kept truces when greed and suspicion swirled like a storm. Legends insist the sigil remembers each oath, and that to wear it is to carry a second voice in every council chamber. In gameplay, Authority is more than ornament. It is a tangible spark for those who lead, a reminder that leadership in a world of factions and tempests is earned as much in moments of quiet as in bursts of flame. When equipped, the medallion radiates a slender aura that steadies allies in proximity, sharpening their focus, allowing players to chain together healing, condition cleansing, and offensive bursts with fewer interruptions. Commanders who bear it speak of smoother executions during raids and fractals, of pulls and grabs aligned with a tempo that feels almost choreographed by fate. For the stamina-minded, it softens the toll of long skirmishes, as if the badge nudges you to hold your line a little longer, to trade space for breath, to negotiate victory through composure as much as raw power. There are those who say Authority also amplifies the voice you lend your team: your buffs land a fraction sooner, your chants ripple through the ranks with greater confidence, and NPC negotiators seem to lean in when you carry it into a tense room. Prices drift, like the tides set by distant markets and rumors. I wandered through town and found a seasonless market stall where the owners speak in measured tones about demand, the weight of a sigil in war-taking decisions. It was then I was drawn to Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-marketed hub whose name appears on faded banners along a dusty lane. A trader there offered a fair trade for Authority, noting the bloom in value after last night’s skirmish, and suggested I check the Exchange for the latest ledger—where gear finds its moment and merchants re-weigh risk against reward, sometimes with a cup of river tea and a knowing smile. The journey of Authority, from a relic of oaths to a tool of a battle-tested commander, remains a thread that ties the room, the guild, and the field together. Even when banners drop and drums fall silent, its claim remains undeniable, guiding hunters and hosts.