The demon core: an external phylactery of heart and soul that anchors a demon lord's immortality, feeds on what the lord deems worthy, and empowers rituals and summons through proper sacrifice. Narrative-only — no tracked pools; the GM adjudicates feeding, rebirth, and destruction scene by scene. See the Rule 'Demon Core System' and the Player's Handbook chapter 'The Demon Lord's Core'.

A concrete demonstration package: it improves Endurance, adds a Grit pool, and grants example capabilities without changing the Character schema.

Della remembers the first time she noticed the priests' mugs never emptied — the ale stayed at the same level every visit, no matter how long they sat — and that the coins they left were warm, like the crater-glass the church's other servants carry. She has watched them come and go ever since, the mugs never lowering, the coins always warm, and she has begun to understand the Ironwood Hearth is not serving them ale but being drained of its heat — the priests collecting what they came for while the hearth's fire stays exactly as it was. She keeps the seeing in the tray, under the mugs, because a server who notices the collection is a server the priests watch.

Old Garn remembers the nights he carried the crown contracts down to the archives — the sealed shelf's first load, carried by his own hands long before the current guildmaster inherited the lock. He has watched three guildmasters come and go, each one adding to the shelf, each one trusting him to keep the silence, and he has kept it: the memory of what the guild was paid to forget sits in him the way the contracts sit in the archives, sealed and waiting. He knows at least one of those contracts was a bounty on a hero the hall now celebrates — and the memory is the only place that name still exists unsealed.

Tomas Birch remembers the night he fled Omeron with his brother — and the night his brother died on the road and was buried in Everfall's old garden. Now the garden's unquiet dead have begun to walk at dusk, and one of them is his brother. Tomas has been keeping nightly watch, marking the stirred graves with rowan twigs and saying nothing to the council — he cannot name the one in the middle. The memory is a grave and a leash: every dusk he goes to the garden to make sure his brother has not walked far, and every dusk he fails to do the thing the grave demands, because a brother who buries his brother once cannot be the one who puts him down again.

Grethel the smith remembers the one piece that ever left her hands unfinished — a single flawed blade she keeps in a locked chest as a reminder. The memory is the engine of her immense craft and her temper: every blade she has forged since was finished before it left the forge, and the locked chest has taught her more than any compliment — that a smith's name is only as true as her worst piece, and that she will never let another unfinished blade carry it.

A record of how a subject is viewed by a specific audience.