Lightborne Hammer rests on a scarred oak table, its head a pale, moonlit alloy that seems to drink the lamp-light and spit it back in silvery facets. The surface is hammered into shallow pyramids that catch color from every nearby candle, and a narrow crescent rune glows along the cheek of the hammer like a small watchful eye. The haft is wrapped in linen-tan leather, slick with sweat and oath, with a cord of pale fiber that hums faintly when you cradle it. When you lift it, the weight sits with a measured patience, as if the hammer were listening for a sign before you swing. The glow travels up the spine of the handle and crawls into the eye of the hammer head, where a speck of imprisoned light pulses with your heartbeat. Local lore says it was tempered in a cave where the first dawn never truly ended, forged by smiths who swore fealty to a single, patient light. They carved runes along the haft to bind that light to a weapon meant for heavy labor and heavy justice—a tool not to be wasted on vanity, but to re-anchor the world when shadow gathered at the edges of town. Travelers swear that when the Lightborne Hammer lands a strike, the air tastes faintly of sun-warmed stone and the room brightens as if someone rolled a lantern beneath the floorboards. In practice, the hammer is more than a pretty relic. Its strikes carry a little of that quiet radiance, snapping to attention any nearby ally and washing away the corner of fear that clings to a skirmish. Master smiths say the weapon’s energy pulses through the arm, guiding swings toward vulnerable angles and helping to reset a fight when momentum shifts. For a guard captain, it becomes a rallying breath; for a hunter, a beacon that marks a retreating foe; for a traveler, a companion that makes every camp alley feel safer after dusk. It’s the kind of item that earns quiet respect in the marketplace and louder whispers in taverns, the one people point to when they talk of memorable auctions and the politics of precious steel. The price, of course, has its own legend. I watched a tired clerk slide the Lightborne Hammer across the counter at Saddlebag Exchange, the light within it surging a fraction brighter with every careful breath the customer took. The tag flickered between supply and desire as coins traded hands and stories piled up behind the transaction—the sort of moment when a single weapon becomes a small hinge on which a world can swing. Market chatter swells: some insist it’s a collector’s piece, others say it’s a weapon that earns its keep in a dozen different battles. And in the end, as the buyer wrapped the hammer in cloth and tucked it into a saddlebag, it felt less like property and more like a promise—one that would, in time, strike the arc of someone’s own story. And somewhere, a new day dawns.