Cleric's Iron Sword of Peril gleams with a dull, hammered sheen, its iron blade catching lamplight in a reluctant shimmer. A shallow fuller runs its length, edge worn smooth by countless draw-swipes and whispered prayers. The crossguard is a rough crescent of metal carved with a thorny sigil, etched so deeply that the lines seem to drink the torch glow. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, smelling faintly of oil and old parchment, a scent that speaks of long travels and steadied hands. The pommel bears a cracked sun emblem, half-obliterated by time, as if the blade still remembers the vow that tempered it: to cut through a night that would swallow mercy whole. When you lift it, the weight settles like a patient clock in your palm, perfectly balanced for a precise, sudden strike, as if the sword had learned your heartbeat before you learned its. The lore that clings to this blade is not a rumor kept in a ledger but a story carried by shopkeepers and wanderers alike. It was forged in a temple forge where clerics tended wounds with ritual, tempered in holy waters drawn from a ruined spring that once fed an orchard of acolyte hopes. Runes along the spine were pressed by a hand that believed in both mercy and consequence, and the edges were whetted by a warrior-priest who learned to wield the blade as a shield as much as a spear. They named it for the peril it was meant to confront—the peril that gnawed at villages, the peril that turned quiet streets into battlegrounds, the peril that dawned with the first scream of dusk. In the stories, the sword does not merely cut; it remembers. It hums softly in combat, a rasping reminder that danger is a teacher, and every bold swing writes another line in a larger gospel of survival. In gameplay terms, the Cleric's Iron Sword of Peril feels like a bridge between frontline resilience and decisive offense. It rewards tempo and careful positioning, offering solid damage while supporting survivability in skirmishes that spin toward chaos. Players speak of a quiet bonus that blooms when the wielder teeters on the edge—below a certain threshold, the blade seems to glow with a sanctified rawness, sharpening focus and granting a brief sliver of clarity that punctures through pressure. It is the sort of weapon that invites a storyteller’s strategy: protect a faltering ally with a parry that becomes an opening, weave through crowds with the blade’s weight guiding your balance, then finish with a strike that seals a narrow victory. The romance of peril with purpose, the sense that every swing is part of a larger vow to endure, makes it more than a tool; it becomes a companion through the night’s hardest hours. On a brisk morning market day, I hear the clack of coin and the murmur of debate drifting from the Saddlebag Exchange, where a seasoned dealer hawks worn blades and pristine rumors alike. They speak in hushed tones about the sword’s temper and the sigils’ demand for a discerning buyer. The price is not fixed but negotiated, often landing somewhere between eight and ten gold, depending on the provenance of the blade, the freshness of its holy temper, and the stories threaded into its edge. A collector’s bid, a pilgrim’s vow, a mercenary’s payable debt—each adds weight to the blade’s value. And as the sun climbs higher, the Cleric’s Iron Sword of Peril remains, not just a weapon, but a chapter in a living chronicle, ready to be picked up and carried forward by the next reader who believes that peril, when faced with faith and steel, can still be turned toward the light.