Dragon's Bite rests in the palm of a scavenger's glove, a blade that seems to drink light. The blade is narrow and curved like a dragon's fang, steel dark as dusk and etched with runes that glow amber when heated. The edge is jagged, catching the eye with irregular facets, and along the spine runs a seam of scales carved into the metal, each scale catching a spark of heat as if the weapon holds a tiny sun within. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, stained with the smell of smoke and old campfires, and at the pommel a fragment of amber seed—a relic of a dragon's breath and a reminder of why a hunter seeks it. Lore whispers that Dragon's Bite was forged at a dragon's lair, cooled in ash, tempered by a hunter who spoke to dragons and learned their rhythm. When drawn, the blade hums with a quiet heat, a warmth that travels up the wearer's arm like a living memory, turning a simple motion into a moment of ceremony. In use, Dragon's Bite is less about numbers and more about storytelling in motion. In the dim light of caves or the bright glare of desert dawn, its glow shifts with the fight, pulsing as it sinks into dragon-scale hides. Players report that each strike channels a brief blaze that burns armor and applies a burn or bleed, depending on the build, while critical hits coax sparks that reveal hidden seams in the world—weak points in unyielding foes and, sometimes, a path forward in a stalled quest. Those who wander with it speak of a symbiosis: the blade feeds on dragon energy, and in return it asks for patient, precise strikes, reading a dragon's tell before you strike. It fits into the broader legends of the old dragon wars and the hunters who braided their fates with beasts, turning a single blade into legend. Market days add another layer to its story. In towns along the river and at gates where caravans rest, traders whisper of the blade's price, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a living ledger of its fortunes. The tents spell out numbers—gold glinting, copper for quick trades—and crowds bargain with stories as much as with coin. A pristine Dragon's Bite commands a strong sum, while a worn version can still fund a new expedition. The Exchange treats history as currency as well as edge. I once heard a collector walk away with more gold than he began with after a patient negotiation, the kind of deal that only a caravan market seems to breed. The blade travels from campfire to campfire, and its legend grows sharper with every journey it makes. Dragon's Bite, then, is not merely steel. It is a thread in a greater tapestry—the memory of fights and fires, the promise of discovery, and a reminder that some weapons carry more than damage; they carry stories that pull us toward the next sunrise of battle and bargain.