The Lucky Ram Lantern sits on the counter, a brass ram’s head cradling a glass globe that glows amber and warm as a hearth in midwinter. Its surface bears a fine patina, as if years of caravans and whispered oaths have pressed a soft sheen into the metal. The glass bears tiny imperfections, moonlike specks that catch the light and scatter it into little constellations when you tilt it just so. Runes along the rim flicker faintly with the flame inside, and a curlicue of stitched leather wraps the base, worn smooth by hands that have opened braziers and closed shutters for a living. There’s a story in the way the lamp breathes when you cradle it—like a small creature waking from a nap, and you swear you hear the old folk-tale of a ram guardian who kept a caravan safe on storm-swept nights. Its lore feels worn but not tired. Some say the lantern was forged in a shielded foundry where brass met moonstone, meant to accompany shepherds and traders who wandered beyond reliable light. Others insist it’s a relic of the Ram Festivals, a token that doubled as luck when the markets went thin and the nights grew long. In either telling, the lantern seems to carry a promise: that a little amber glow can steer a wayward caravan, warm a sleeping camp, or guide a wandering buyer back to honest coins. In practice, the Lucky Ram Lantern is more than ornament. When you carry it, its light softens the cold corner of the map you’re in, making it easier to spot a safe path through fog-draped forests or the snarl of market streets after dusk. In towns where caravan routes cross, it signals travelers and guards alike that you belong to a trusted chain, a beacon of steady hands and fair dealings. In the shadow markets of the day or the glow of late-night stalls, it becomes a symbol of good luck, a talisman that friends are happy to barter around. It’s also practical: you can set it on a shelf in your encampment, and the glow lasts long enough to temper long watches or stories told after a day of hard labor. Pricing is a matter of stories and seasons. I watched a stall keeper sample its glow and sketch a rough number in the air—two gold pieces, perhaps a touch more for someone who understands its history. That’s when the conversation drifted toward Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling corner of the market where traders swap tales and goods with a wink and a nod. If you ever decide to move it along, that exchange has a reputation for fair appraisals and reliable buyers, a place where the lamps and lucks of old caravans eventually find another home. Tonight, under lantern-light and tired feet, I watch the lamps pass from hand to hand, and I imagine a road opening where strangers become kin, trading stories as the Amber Ram glows brighter, as if blessing every bargain made there.