All Seeing sits on the table like a patient moon: a carved lens of obsidian metal, its edges gently worn, a strip of pale brass catching the light and bending it into a second, warmer glow. The surface is sapphire-smooth, yet a whisper of frost clings to it, as if breath from long corridors lingers on the alloy. Runic sigils coil around the bezel, faintly pulsating when the room grows quiet, and a tiny crescent badge is pressed into the center, a seal set by hands that once traded sight for a rumor of certainty. Legends say it was forged by a seer-sculptor who bartered vision for truth, a traveler who learned to listen to dreams and turn them to metal. In old tales it is said to awaken when the city sighs, to reveal what ordinary sight cannot: the hidden marks of old bargains, the glimmer of a chest tucked behind a false wall, the path that forks in a shadowed alley where a patrol will soon shift its gaze. I found it beneath a stack of velvet dust inside a stall smelling faintly of pine resin and rain-washed stone. The vendor swore it came from a circle of wanderers who traced the rumor of a light that travels through walls, and that the All Seeing would rest only in the palm of one who could bear the truth of both daylight and rumor. When I pressed it to my palm, the room seemed to tilt, the way a hill does when you turn a corner too quickly. The runes warmed, not hot but alive, and for a heartbeat the walls opened like curtains, letting me glimpse something that should have stayed hidden. The All Seeing does not grant power to crush obstacles; it grants presence to those who move through them with care. Hidden safes come into view, traps reveal their bones before you take a single step, and on certain quests the map itself sighs and redraws, offering pathways that would otherwise lie beyond reach. It is a companion more than a tool, demanding balance: the more you see, the heavier your footsteps become, and the more you must weigh what to carry into the next room. Markets at Saddlebag Exchange thrum with a different kind of light when such a relic is nearby. A clerk’s ink-stained fingers hover over a parchment price, eyes bright with the contest of bargains, and the air fills with the soft clink of coins as buyers and sellers barter. The Exchange thrives on stories like mine—tales of a thing that does not simply reveal the world, but folds it onto itself and invites you to step through the opening. A bartered sum, a whispered line about scarcity, and suddenly the All Seeing is claimed by someone who knows that perception is a kind of courage. I carry it now not to dominate the city but to listen to the streets breathe, to hear the world tell its secrets in the language of shadows. In the end, All Seeing is not a weapon but a doorway—one that invites you to walk through with your eyes open, perhaps a little wiser for what you behold.