There are months you spend entirely on guard, and somewhere in them you forget that resting was ever a thing your body knew how to do.

Lead and dark blue, settled and low, almost black at the heart. It carries the cool of deep stone, the weight of a wool coat, and the long, kept scent of cedar and old paper.

Months of self-protection turn the bracing into who you think you are. The sigil shields nothing and seals nothing away — it holds a deep, lasting wall you can lean your whole weight against, so the guarding can finally stop being yours alone.