Ravaging Flame Mace of Battle gleams with a furnace glow, its head a mass of hammered steel etched with vein-like lines that pulse orange-red like lava beneath night’s skin. The surface is pitted and warm to the touch, yet the edges retain a cool, stubborn bite as if heat itself knows when to sleep. The grip is wrapped in scorched leather, stitched with copper thread that catches the light with every confident swing. A central core, suspended within the head, seems to burn from the inside—a perpetual ember promising more than blunt force. Lore says it was quenched in a dragon’s breath, tempered by a battlefield’s fury, then sealed with iron that can endure frost as surely as it endures a lance’s bite. Swing it and a ring of warmth radiates outward, as if the air itself catches flame. In the hands of a sturdy guardian or a nimble battler, the mace becomes more than a tool—it turns into a storyteller in the smoke. Its flame-touched strike sears foes and leaves Burning on impact, a stubborn mark that gnaws at enemies as you press forward. The weapon’s energy anchors a wider tactic: rush the frontline, shield comrades, and lure rivals into a corridor of heat where retreat grows costly. It is loud, yes—a weapon that shouts heat and honor—but it’s also precise, guiding bravado into disciplined, flame-woven momentum. Market mornings bring a different theater to the scene. The Saddlebag Exchange hums with a pulse of brass and cloth as this relic catches the eye. Traders spread a velvet cloth across a scarred wooden table, the Ravaging Flame Mace of Battle resting there like a captive sun. Its glow brightens the faces of spectators, revealing the scars and stories etched into its metal. A hawker whispers of reliability and legend—how it has pierced a siege’s darkness and blazed a path through shattered defenses. The price becomes a conversation rather than a contract; a traveler might walk away with it for a handful of gold more or less, depending on the day’s mood, the buyer’s haggling, and the luck of a well-timed bid. Saddlebag Exchange, lantern-lit and crowded, preserves memory as surely as it moves coin, turning the mace’s value into a measured blend of tale and trade. Back at camp, someone tracing victory’s outline around a map abstracts the moment into memory. The leather wrap finds its finger again, and the ember within the head seems to answer with a patient glow. The Ravaging Flame Mace of Battle threads courage to consequence, flame to steel, across sieges, skirmishes, and quiet, stubborn standstills alike. It is more than metal or a weapon of war; it is a flame keeper, a chapter marker in a world where every clash writes its own glow. Some stories end in smoke, others in ash and silence; this one, though, keeps burning—an heirloom in motion, ready to be passed to the next hand that dares to swing, to burn, to remember.