Mending Zweihänder rests under a lamp, its blade pale as frost, broad and clean, with a single fuller's line that catches the light and glows faintly whenever warmth brushes the steel. The edge is sharp but not cruel, as if cut from a winter wind, and along the fuller run runes that look too precise to be mere decoration—the kind of script a healer would recognize, a vow in iron. The grip is wrapped in dusk-black leather, worn smooth by hands that learned patience, and the guard is broad enough to cradle a life as easily as a blade. When you lift it, the weapon feels not just heavy but patient, as if it waits for a moment of need to decide its next act. Old stories whisper that this zweihänder was tempered in the long hours after a last sortie, when healers stitched the wounded as carefully as smiths set rivets. The maker supposedly traded a portion of his own vitality for a blade that could mend what battle tore—armor, bone, courage. People speak of the blade as if it listens, casting a soft warmth over those who wield it, a careful hum that travels from hand to shoulder to heart. It is said to drink in the cries of the wounded and return to the world with something repaired, not only in the body but in the resolve of those who stand around the fire. In the field the Mending Zweihänder is more than a weapon; it is a conduit for the discipline of staying alive under pressure. When it sings through a swing, you feel a faint pulse of restoration braided into the strike, a quiet reminder that even steel can be coaxed toward healing. For groups, its presence seems to steady the tempo of combat: less flinching, more coordinated presses, a shared breath that keeps the frontline from splintering as you push through a corridor of arrows and flame. Even solo fighters have found that the blade’s aura lends endurance, a small shield of warmth that makes each step feel a little surer, a little less hollow after a long charge. I found the blade again in a busy market stall, the Saddlebag Exchange, where tarnished golden signs swing overhead and the chatter never seems to end. A trader there—the kind who speaks softly and counts coins with the weathered ease of someone who has measured every price in silver—tapped the blade’s gleaming edge and spoke of its price as if it were a story you could take home. Three gold, he said, with a grin that suggested the world might tilt if you disagreed. It wasn’t just a fee, but a pact: a weapon forged to mend not just armor but the fragile courage of whoever must carry it. I walked away with a purse heavier and lighter at once, carrying a weapon that would outlive its own rumor. Back at the forges, the Mending Zweihänder rests beside a stack of leather wraps and a ledger full of worn sigils, waiting for the next hand to hear its history and decide what it will mend next.