For the days you've packed your anger away so neatly you've half-convinced yourself it isn't there.
A low crimson, the colour of banked anger, edged in black. It has the heat just off a flame and the dry scent of struck flint.
Exiled anger doesn't leave; it just goes quiet and waits. It tidies nothing away — it makes room to meet the heat you've put aside, without having to act on it or apologise for it.
Light
Keep it where the swallowed anger sits heaviest.
Witcher
Sit with the center, breathe down once, and let the banked heat be felt without doing anything with it.
Sealed in the archive. Only the sigil that comes to you today opens in AR.
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