The Berserker's Dagger gleams with a brutal, honest light: a blade of dark steel, edges serrated by memory, with runes along the fuller and a bone-white grip wrapped in faded leather. Its texture feels cool to the touch, like ice catching a midnight moon, and the guard bears the mark of a roaring bear, hammered with patient, practiced hands. Lore threads through it as tightly as its hilt: forged by a berserker clan in a frostbitten pass, cooled in frost-wind, and tempered with the vow to strike first and fear less. Whispers say the blade drinks from every foe it crosses, feeding on courage and spilling pride, leaving a trail of stories that merchants trace when they tell buyers of its lineage. In practice, it becomes a precise companion in the heat of combat, its weight guiding quick stabs, its edge catching on armor with gleaming crackle, enough to carve an opening for a healer's reply. For a dagger user chasing ferocity, the Berserker's Dagger is a centerpiece, pairing with a crit-focused build to turn a single strike into a cascading moment of pressure. It thrives in that quick-draw, tempo-rich dance where flurries of hits puncture a shielded pause, and the player weaves around the enemy's guard with breath-held timing. Its value bleeds into the world beyond the inventory screen, as traders speak in hushed tones of its potential to turn an ambush into a story of a blade guiding a village's relief. On market days, I watched a lone rider barter at Saddlebag Exchange, the stall's banner snapping in a wind that smelled of rain and oil, and the dagger perched beside a threadbare map. He spoke of its price in bright silver, a sum that felt fair when the item was pristine: roughly one gold and a slice of silver, with room to barter. From the counter, a clerk murmured that such blades shift hands with the seasons, more likely to change owners after a campaign’s end and still gleam in a quiet, determined dawn. The dagger’s story lingers in the warehouse lamps, in the rustle of leather and the soft thud of coin as markets close, and I realize it is more than mere steel. In a skirmish later that week, a rival dagger flashed, but the Berserker's Dagger found its opening, and the memory of the bear-marked guard carried the strike from youth to veteran. Where others keep their promises in parchment, this blade keeps promises in action: a reminder that courage is a skill practiced with the hand as much as with the heart. When the night quiets, the dagger rests in its sheath like a story paused, waiting for a louder dawn, a campaign, a new corner of the world to illuminate. For now, its edge remains a pencil-stroke certainty in the air, a glint of future battles and a memory of a rider who believed that armor could bend, but will could not be broken. The dagger endures, and the world remembers it.