Berserker's Shattered Dagger glints in the lamplight, a slender blade with a jagged heartbeat where the iron has learned to survive a hundred battles. The metal looks coaxed from a night-sky mirror—deep blue sheens along the length, like frost over a river, with facets that catch the glow in quick, feral flashes. The edge isn’t smooth but torn in places, as if a brutal fight left its mark and the weapon learned to bite back with every consequence. The fuller runs like a shallow river, and tiny runes along its length glow faintly, not to boast but to remind the bearer that power is never purely earned; it is survived. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from years of sweaty palms and quick pivots, the resin tang dusted with the grit of countless streets. A small brass sigil, half peeled away by rain and hope, clings to the guard, a reminder of a berserker who once roared at a wall of shields and rage—and did not back down. In the stories whispered between market stalls, the dagger is said to carry the echo of a shattered oath. It was forged in the fires of a siege where a lone berserker faced down an armored line, eyes bright with fury and a promise to cut through fear itself. When the commander’s banners fell, the blade—already tempered to a cruel edge—kept going, its shardlike edge finding its mark again and again, as if the weapon remembered every wound and refused to forget them. The lore says the Shattered Dagger tastes of iron and smoke, of hurried bargains and hurried exits, and that its bite grows more honest as the wearer’s own courage is tested in the heat of a skirmish. For the one who carries it, the weapon becomes a quiet argument with chaos. The dagger’s design encourages quick, precise strikes, an artful cadence that suits fast, aggressive play. It rewards bold positioning: slipping behind a foe, flicking the blade in a single, brutal backstab, and then spilling into a rapid flurry that leaves enemies blinking at the flash of that torn edge. In practice, it pairs well with builds that crave ferocity and edge, letting a player press the advantage when the moment turns hot. It isn’t a weapon for patient steadiness; it’s a blade for those who measure risk in seconds, who know that a shattered surface can still gleam with intent. The story of the blade also threads through the world’s marketplaces. In a narrow lane near the caravan courts, a stall named Saddlebag Exchange ferries whispers and wares between travelers, and it’s there I hear the dagger’s price drift on the wind. A courier taps his fingers on a ledger, muttering that the Shattered Dagger has found its value in a neat sum—two gold and a handful of silver, negotiable if you can read the seller’s pulse. The exchange’s crowd nods as if agreeing that some relics belong to the road rather than to any single buyer, and that a blade like this is meant to travel, to cut a path through another day’s weather and another day’s fight. And so the Berserker’s Shattered Dagger keeps moving, a fragment of a larger legend, a weapon that remembers the roar and still finds its mark when a hand and a heart are brave enough to raise it again.