Kina's Warning Shot rests on the desk like a small, patient thundercloud, its barrel a ribbon of cold steel that shines with a blue-grey luster. The grip is a dressed slice of dark walnut, worn smooth by hands that have learned the weight of a world in a single steady squeeze. Along the trigger guard, delicate silver sigils wind in a lazy spiral, as if the weapon itself keeps a secret on the tip of its tongue. The name—Kina's Warning Shot—is stamped into the receiver in a font that seems to have learned to handwriting from the shadows, a label that carries both promise and warning in equal measure. When you pick it up, the gun feels almost alive, as if it remembers the moment it left Kina's palm and found a new story to tell through the hands of whoever now holds it. Lore threads through its surface like the grain in the wood. Kina was no reckless daredevil, the elders say, but a practiced observer of the world’s changing weather—the sort of marksman who fired not to claim immediate glory but to demand a pause in the dialogue of violence. The warning shot, in her telling, was never a bluster or a trap; it was a vow that conversations could still be salvaged even when the sun had slipped behind smoke and fear. From the first crack of the shot to the slow, listening silence that followed, the weapon became a character in its own right—a reminder that a single, measured signal can avert a tragedy or, at the very least, grant a shipper, a guard, or a caravan leader a chance to speak before steel returns to its ready posture. In the world’s rhythm, Kina's Warning Shot is more than a relic—it is a tool that thrives on timing. Used properly, the pistol serves as a catalyst for parley, drawing out the nervous energy of a tense moment and inviting the other side to lay down their guard long enough to hear a compromise spoken aloud. It’s prized by opportunists and guardians alike because it can alter a battlefield’s tempo without a single volley. For those who walk with it, the gun is a constant reminder that force is not the only language worth learning; restraint, when spoken through a precise, honest trigger pull, can rewrite a negotiation as deftly as any crossfire. Market stories inevitably drift toward Saddlebag Exchange, the bustling hub where traders lay open their wares like a map spread across a table. A pristine Kina’s Warning Shot, with a sheen that still mirrors the memory of its maker, will catch the eye of anyone who prizes history with utility. Prices drift with the wind, but you’ll hear whispers of it for a few gold to several, depending on condition, enchantments, and the quiet reputation of the buyer who carries it away. I watched a veteran trader slide the pistol across a counter, the room swallowing the click of coins as if swallowing a small, remembered storm. He called it a “reliable argument in metal,” and you could tell the term was less a boast than a confession: sometimes, the threat of quiet is more persuasive than the loudest burst of fire. Kina’s Warning Shot remains, still, a story you can cradle in your hand—one part of a larger chronicle about treaties whispered in shadow and the fragile moments when a single, deliberate shot becomes the hinge on which a day turns.