Labrys rests on a worn mahogany pedestal in the dim corner of a market stall, its double-axe heads catching the lantern light and throwing twin halos across the boards. The steel is pale as frost, the edges softly chipped from years of use, and sigils swirl along the blades in a pattern that seems to move when you blink. The haft is wrapped in cracked leather the color of dried blood, and a small brass cap at the butt bears a labyrinthine motif that seems to pulse with a quiet, patient energy. A faint scent of oil and old pine clings to it, as if the weapon has spent half a lifetime lying in a cedar chest, waiting for its next chapter. Lore clings to Labrys like a second skin: forged at the edge of a great labyrinth by a smith named Kaen, who could hear the echoes of footsteps inside stone and coax them into shape. They say the weapon was tempered in a storm and blessed by a guardian of doorways, so that it always finds the path through a fight rather than through a map. The blade faces are etched with spirals that seem to whisper when the wind shifts, and the grooves catch the lamplight in a way that makes the weapon look as if it’s breathing. In the world it wanders into, Labrys wears its history like a badge. It feels balanced enough to swing with the wary grace of a dancer, yet heavy enough to bury itself in the moment of impact. Those who wield it speak of a rhythm: a double swing that cuts two lines in one breath, a sweep that can carve a path through a bewildering phalanx and leave a ring of stunned enemies in its wake. It’s not merely a showpiece; in skilled hands it anchors a build around crowd control and sustained momentum, helping to rearrange the battlefield as if tracing a new corridor through the thicket of combat. And then there’s the market story. The Labrys changes hands in whispers and coin, moving through caravans and stallholders across the city square. A few merchants swear by its predictable temper, others warn that its charm travels with the caravan as much as the steel does, rising or falling with rumor and demand. When a traveler confides that the price hovered near a small fortune last season, the reply is always the same: shopkeepers point toward the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders log a chorus of prices, notes, and stories before a buyer ever lifts a finger. There, under the glow of a lantern and a ledger, the Labrys becomes part of a larger bargain: value measured not only in gold but in journeys taken, labyrinths survived, and the quiet confidence of someone who knows how to walk a corridor of swords and still keep their footing. If you listen closely, the weapon seems to murmur back: walk with me, and we’ll find the next door together. It is, in the end, a doorway and a weapon.