Cleric's Iron Sword gleams under the lantern’s pearled glow, a blade of iron tempered to listen as much as cut. The steel is dark as rain-washed night, with a blue-gray sheen that shifts when light finds it a certain angle, like a whisper of frost on a window. Along the blade runs a narrow fuller that catches the eye and then pulls it forward, a shallow channel that seems to breathe with every step the weapon takes. The crossguard arches outward in a quiet chapel’s grace, each prong etched with prayer glyphs that flicker faintly when devotion sharpens the wielder’s aim. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, worn smooth by years of steady hands, and the pommel bears a tiny sigil — a healing sun encircled by runes that tell of mercy, patience, and unyielding resolve. Lore clings to the sword as if it were a memory pressed between its iron bones. It is said to have been forged in a shrine’s ancient furnace by a cleric-smith who wove prayers into the steel as surely as heat. Those who carry it speak of a blade that remembers its maker’s vows, humming softly near sacred sites, a quiet reminder that mercy can be a weapon as keen as any edge. In ruined monasteries and wind-battered ramparts, the Cleric’s Iron Sword has appeared at pivotal moments, biting through gloom and lending an almost holy steadiness to the hands that wield it. In the field, its significance unfolds like a living story. The sword’s balance invites precise, deliberate strikes, but its true weight lies in the way it entwines offense with protection. Some veterans swear that when a clean hit lands, a subtle flare of vitality gathers around nearby allies, as if the blade itself were siphoning a little courage from the clash to offer back in healing light. Its aura, whispered among healers and frontline guardians, seems to tighten the weave of defense when devotion is channeled, turning a simple swing into a hinge between fear and faith. Those who favor a cleric-flavored playstyle—a guardian who strides between shield and strike—find in it a partner that can turn momentum toward mercy without surrendering resolve. On a late-market afternoon, the road-worn traveller steps into the bustle surrounding Saddlebag Exchange, a stall crowded with odds and ends that carry the weight of stories. A clerk with ink on his fingers lays the Cleric’s Iron Sword on a padded cloth, the runes catching every glow. The price tag is written in neat, old silver ink, a reminder that some bargains are measured not just in metal but in memory. The narrative of the blade swirls through the chatter of merchants and buyers; the exchange is known for quick turns and fair eyes, where old blades meet new hands and are priced not only by weight but by the faith they carry. The traveller trades a worn locket and a whispered promise for the sword, the deal sealed with a nod and a blessing that sounds almost like wind through a chapel’s arches. So the Cleric’s Iron Sword passes from one life to the next, crossing markets and monasteries, carried by voices that keep faith with its maker. It remains more than a weapon; it is a vow tempered in iron—a reminder that in the heart of battle, mercy can rise as steel.