The Berserker's Iron Mace of Smoldering gleams with a heat-hazed glow, its iron head scarred from countless forges, teeth-like flanges of steel catching light as if they were coals. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, frayed and oiled, with a ring of copper rivets that catch every spark. Runic sigils crawled along the shaft in a slow, molten script, a faded glow that seems to move when you blink, like a living map of battles past. A core of ember-blue light rests just beneath the head, pulsing gently as if the weapon itself breathes heat. It feels heavy, yes, but springy, as if the metal remembers every swing you've ever planned to throw. Legends whisper that it was forged in the cauldron of a long-dead volcano, tempered by the roars of berserkers who fought with heartfire rather than steel. The weapon's name is not vanity but a vow—that rage, when given form, will burn away fear and leave truth in its wake. When you lift it, the world seems to narrow to a line of targets and the scent of scorched iron. You can almost hear distant drums, a chorus of warping heat, as if the mace summons a memory of the tribe that gripped it first. In the game-world, its power is not just in the weight but in the way the embered aura answers the user’s aggression. A strike bites with brute force, and a well-timed blow fans the flames outward, granting a flash of ferocity that sharpens your next hit. It suits a ferocity-forward playstyle—raw, headlong, and unafraid to push to the edge—where Power and Ferocity rise together as you press into a frontline grind. The mace doesn’t just carp about damage; it narrows foes and flares up when you crit, leaving a glinting afterimage of heat where enemies once stood. Travelers tell stories of the rune-fired gleam on the mace’s surface and the way it seems to smolder even in rain. They speak of a guildmaster who wore it as a talisman during a siege, of a village that swore the ember-hearted weapon saved them by turning a retreat into a furious countercharge. The lore is not all rumor; some of its truth lies in the markets, where a battered specimen might dip in price during a slump and a pristine version can fetch a premium. That is where the Saddlebag Exchange comes in, a clattering knot of stalls where traders haggle and histories change hands. I watched a vendor’s hands move with the lightest touch, noting a price tag that suggested the mace’s value—enough to tempt a daring buyer while reminding a buyer that glory has a cost. If you chase stories as much as power, the Berserker’s Iron Mace of Smoldering feels like stepping into a battlefield where every ember remembers your name—and your swing, too. Even in quiet hours, when the city cools, its glow lingers at memory's edge. It is not merely a weapon; heat shapes history. Its glow endures.