Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Smoldering

Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Smoldering rests in my hand, a slender arc of ashwood etched with frostlike grain that seems to breathe as I turn it. Its limbs are pale as morning ice, scratched here and there by tiny, careful grooves that catch the light and lick it with a faint, orange glow. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, scent of rain and campfire lingering in the fibers, and the string bears a wavering tremor, as if the thing itself remembers every quiet draw. Along the bow’s riser, silver sigils pulse faintly when I cradle it, tiny runes of mending that glow a cool blue and then brighten to ember-bright with each measured release. A crest of the Shiverpeak—a jagged line of peaks cradled by frost—is carved near the grip, weathered by wind and time, reminding the bearer that this weapon did not merely survive the storms; it learned from them. The varnish bears micro-scarred fingerprints of a smith who labored in a workshop perched above a glacier, where heat met ice and sparks taught patience. The word Smoldering whispers through the wood in hidden lettering, and the whole thing feels as if it might still carry a sigh of winter’s breath and a flame’s resolve at once. In hands like mine, the bow seems to insist on a narrative beyond mere aim. It was said to be forged for a ranger who walked the granite roads of the Shiverpeak range, a guardian who could listen to ash and hear it telling stories of wounds that would heal if tended with time and fire’s careful mercy. The Mending in its name is not merely a boast but a promise—the kind of promise that turns a skirmish into a moment of restoration. When I nock an arrow and draw, the sigils glow in a rhythm that feels almost like a heartbeat, and the first flicker of warmth that travels along the shaft seems to carry a quiet intention: to mend what fear would rend asunder. The Smoldering part of its lineage lends heat to every penetration, a flame that punishes corruption in the air and leaves a lingering warmth that mindfully quickens recovery in the field. It is not a weapon that shouts; it is a patient storyteller, weaving the tale of a broken camp into a march toward wholeness. Its role in the world of skirmishes and long patrols is practical as much as poetic. A hunter who learns to read the ember runes discovers that a well-placed shot can do more than bruise a foe; it can cradle a wounded companion back toward steadiness, guiding a party through a night where even courage seems frostbitten. The bow’s fire-touched arrows burn with purpose yet leave behind a trace of healing warmth that helps allies endure the chill of a mountain siege, the dampness of a fog-bound pass, the fatigue that gnaws at the edges of a retreat. When markets call and the road-worn trader eyes the bow’s unusual glow, I drift into the Saddlebag Exchange with it tucked near my belt. The clerk, a weathered woman with quick eyes and a steady voice, smiles at the sigils and murmurs that this is not mere hardware but a relic of a pact between ice and flame. She prices it with care, speaking of a premium for mended wood and a soul bound to Shiverpeak memory, yet she lets the bid breathe, noting that a well-kept specimen might fetch around two dozen gold coins depending on who holds it, and a trade here could become a story of its own. I walk away lighter than I came, pocketing the coin and the sense that the bow will never be merely carried; it will be carried forward, a bridge between winter’s edge and the hearth that follows.