Deathwish gleams under the lamplight—a curved blade of midnight steel, its edge whisper-thin and flawless as a shard of glass sharpened by moonlight. The metal drinks the glow and returns it in a pale, frost-fed gleam. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, cracked with use, the hilt bound tight with red-threaded sinew that looks almost alive when the room’s shadows shift. A small, bone-white emblem sits at the pommel, a sigil that seems to pulse faintly if you listen closely, as if a quiet heartbeat lives in the weapon’s cold center. Runes wind along the blade’s fuller, not mere decoration but a language of threshold and choice—faintly audible when the wind sweeps through an open window, like a whisper from a forgotten oath. Locals say Deathwish was forged at the edge of a plague year, when ought-to-be-dead promises and dark bargains found a louder voice in the workshop of a retired hunter turned collector. Some insist the steel was tempered with ash from a funeral pyre, others claim a thief’s ghost lent its chill to the alloy. The lore is as braided as the weapon’s steel: a blade that does not just cut but binds. When it is held in the right hands, it seems to hum with a quiet gravity, as if the world’s weight pressed a little closer and forgot to release it. In the field, Deathwish is less a symbol and more a tool that threads itself into a larger story. It is said to awaken when the wielder’s life climbs toward the edge of its own limits, drawing strength from the near-death moment and turning it into momentum. On a good night, a strike with Deathwish drains a fragment of an adversary’s life essence and funnels it into healing for the wielder, a lifeline that makes risky gambits feel almost preordained rather than reckless. On the same breath, the blade can grant a brief surge of resolve, sharpening the wielder’s focus and letting allies glimpse a path through treacherous terrain. It is a weapon that carves its own chapter into a battle narrative, changing what is at stake with each breath between swings. Pricing, trade, and the rumor mill all whirl around this artifact as if it were a living thing. In the bustle of the market, a stall talks softly about the safety a weapon like Deathwish offers a party passing through a contested zone, about how a single strike can turn the tide when every option feels thin. Merchants sometimes speak in hushed tones of Saddlebag Exchange, the ledger of deals that drifts between caravans and city gates. There, the going rate for Deathwish ebbs and flows with the tides of demand, the season’s scarcity, and what new lore has just reached the streets. The blade’s value rests not only on its edges but on the stories it carries—the bargain it makes with whoever dares to draw it. Holding Deathwish, you hold a piece of a world’s whispered history, a object that invites you to walk a narrow line between risk and consequence. It asks you to consider what you would give, or take, to tip a moment in your favor—and to remember that some bargains are etched in steel, and some debts are paid with courage alone.