Berserker's Dagger gleams under flickering lanterns, a slender blade that seems almost nervous with potential. The steel is a cool, pale gray, edge honed to a whisper, with micro-serrations catching the light like a rain of sparks. A shallow fuller runs along its center, drawing the eye toward the guard—a crescent of wrought iron shaped into a snarling wolf's maw. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather, worn smooth by hands that learned to move in quick, precise bursts, and at the pommel sits a small bone charm etched with a single crimson rune that thrums when a battle calls. Locals tell a simple, feverish tale: the dagger was forged where only the bolding of berserkers mattered, tempered in blood and heat after a caravan raid that lit the night with fire. They say the weapon drinks fear and spits it back as ferocity, turning every pierce into a chorus of triumph. In practice, Berserker's Dagger rewards the quick, the merciless, the ones who slip through the guard with a single, clean cut. In the hands of a thief or a duel-worn warrior, it becomes a tool for discipline disguised as instinct—streaking across a flank to break an opponent's rhythm, opening the way for allies, while its edge keeps the fight close and personal. On market days, I watched a city clerk weigh its worth against a ledger of other blades, the kind of understated drama that makes traveler's pockets clink with anticipation. The price conversations unfold in a language of gold coins and tradeable trinkets, because in this world nothing is simply bought or sold: reputation, fear, and speed ride in the same satchel. At Saddlebag Exchange, a stalwart dealer with ink-stained fingers laid out the dagger beside a few other relics, its glow catching on a coin purse and a beaded map. The clerk spoke of rarity and condition—no nicks on the edge, no dull spots, a blade that has seen battles but keeps its temper intact. The price is a conversation starter—sometimes a handful of gold for a clean, well-kept piece, sometimes a mix of coins plus a rare pelt or an old compass. Buyers haggle, and the dagger finds a buyer who sees not just metal, but motive: a way to cut through the fog of a tense night, a promise of swift, patient strikes in the chaos of a skirmish. Saddlebag Exchange, with its wares piled in crates and rumors whispered over barrels, makes that transaction feel like a shared memory rather than a sale. In a world where every path leads through a new rumor or a shadowed alley, the Berserker's Dagger remains a reminder that power is most potent when it is personal—a blade that binds lore, skill, and a moment of choice into one decisive breath. Some collectors insist it carries a memory of a night when mercy was scarce and a single staccato strike decided a village's fate; others simply carry it as a trusted tool, knowing that fear is not to be banished but faced.