Carrion Flame Cleaver of Air rests on a rough oak table, its blade coal-dark and hammered with streaks of orange ember that glow like a dying sun. The edge flickers with heat, a tiny tremor running along the steel as if the metal itself holds its breath. The haft is wrapped in cracked leather, mottled bone-white scales stitched into the grip, and a faint rustle of dried feathers curls from a notch near the guard. Runed sigils trace from tang to pommel, a lattice of wind engraved in silver thread, and a faint scent of scorched resin lingers, as though the weapon kept watch over the last flame of a fallen caravan. The guard is carved in the shape of a hawk’s wing, and the pommel bears a fragment of a prismatic shell that flickers with every heartbeat of the blade. Whispers say it was forged in a kiln fed by carrion embers and winds, beneath a ruined outpost where scavengers remade themselves into scholars of flame and gust. A hunter's blade, they claim, bound to the Air sigil, capable of bending the moment when death edges close. Those who carry it swear they hear the breath of a storm every time they swing, as if the blade is coaxing the wind to answer a call that predates any map. In combat, the Cleaver does more than cut. Its flames lash at foes, leaving a trail of heat that unsettles nerves and leaves armor fatigued. Strikes rip the air, creating a quickening zone where allies gain a moment to press forward, and enemies find their stances unsettled as gusts shove them off balance. A skilled fighter can time a burst of air with a leap, sending the blade in a wide arc that cleaves through cloaks and chain alike, while the ember in the core mutters a warning to those who would threaten the bearer. Caravans moving through ash-swept passes tell stories of a warden who used the Cleaver to part a stampede of tunneling beasts, then to coax a path through a blinding dust storm toward a village that would have starved without the blade’s favor. In markets where trade roads meet, travelers decode its markings and decide its next home among the rough shelves of a blacksmith's shop or a hunter's camp. That decision often happens at Saddlebag Exchange, where a battered table bears dozens of such items, haggled over by lantern light. The price tags shift with the tide of caravans: a clean, polished piece might fetch a small fortune, yet a tempered but worn Cleaver—scorched at the edge and slick with resin—could be bargained down to a comfortable sum with a story attached. Traders speak softly about the wind howling at the handle, about the way the Ember-gold runes seem to glow brighter when the weather breaks, and a buyer who understands the lore may walk away with a blade that will feel like a trusted kin in the next dawn raid. It chooses its bearer.