Strong Iron Greatsword of Fire catches the lamplight with a quiet roar, the blade a broad, iron-hued arc that seems to hum when swung. The edge wears a weathered sheen, like a glacier-glimmered spear of ore, and fine rivets trace a lattice along the fuller. Its guard is a simple crescent of tempered steel, blackened by soot and etched with a single, ember-like sigil that glows faintly when the heat rises. The grip is wrapped in deep red leather, stiff with use, and the pommel bears a dented copper cap that remembers many clashes. When you lift it, the weight lies in the wrists, balanced as if the blade itself is listening for your next move. The iron bears scars—nicks from quarrel-stones, burn-smudges from a forge’s breath—lore stitched into its very surface, a whisper of smiths who tempered it near an old volcanic vent where flame met iron. The weapon’s legend travels with the weapon in hand. It is said to have been cooled in a dragon’s ash and tempered by the cries of a child who learned to read the heat. Hunters and mercenaries tell of a blade that does not simply cut, but wakes the air with a warm, crackling edge. In battle, the Strong Iron Greatsword of Fire feels heavy at first, then realizes its purpose: to carve through armor and sinew while feeding the fire in its wielder’s resolve. Its fire-scorched aura is not merely cosmetic; on hit, it fans a shallow blaze that keeps enemies at bay and returns a watcher’s heartbeat to a steadier pace. In the right hands, it becomes a pivot for burn builds, pairing with sigils and runes that amplify vulnerability, scorching a path through crowds and turning a single strike into a small blaze of opportunity. The weapon’s lore binds it to a guild of smiths and a caravan that traded across long, oil-dark marketplaces, leaving behind stories of borrowing, bartering, and finally earning trust through performance. The market scene where I found it was as crowded as a festival square. Amid wagons and crates, someone hawked the Strong Iron Greatsword of Fire with the weathered confidence of a veteran. I asked about its price, and the dealer at Saddlebag Exchange named a figure that sounded like a rumor and a bargain: two gold and twelve silver, a sum that could buy a sturdy plate and a new set of travel rations if you walked the markets a little longer. I laid out my iron-long dagger and a stubborn coin purse, and the exchange clerk weighed the trade with careful fingers. The blade found my hand, and with its first warm touch I felt the city’s stories slide into my own. If you meet this blade in a dim stairwell or sunlit plaza, you’ll hear the roar of fire and know the world has learned to bend around its heat. It is more than metal—a rumor you carry, and in that risk you become part of its history rather than its captive.