Harsab the Divider of Severance gleams in the soft glow of a lantern, a greatsword that wears its age like a scar. The blade is a dark, tempered gray, the edge razor-clean and whisper-thin, as if it learned to cut through doubt as well as flesh. Along the spine run faint grooves that catch the light, forming a lattice of interlocking sigils—broken chains that seem to shiver with every metronome heartbeat of the room. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, the grip comfortable as if a hand had labored with it for a hundred dawns, and the guard splits into two slender wings that cradle the blade but never coddle it. A narrow seam along the center glows with a pale, frost-blue glow, like frost on a winter river, hinting at a power that lies just beneath the steel’s calm veneer. It is a weapon that feels older than the room itself, as if it carried the sighs and oaths of a long-forgotten oath-breaker. Lore threads through its surface in a patient way, as if the blade arrived with a burden. They say Harsab—the smith who tempered its temper and the oath-breaker who bound himself to severance rather than servitude—poured into the steel stories of loyalties sundered and loyalties chosen anew. The Divider of Severance earned its name not from a simple cut, but from the way it seems to illuminate the moment when a choice is made and a tie is irrevocably loosened. When the moon catches its edge, locals speak of a tremor of memory passing through the air, as if the weapon remembers every oath it has helped sever, every alliance it nudged apart, and every new path those ruptures forged. Some traders whisper that the blade hums when it senses a false bond—a reminder that severance, once spoken, cannot be unsaid. In practice, the sword carries its weight not only in lore but in the world’s shifting currents of power. Wielded by a champion who respects restraint, it becomes less a weapon of brute force than a mechanism for turning points in battle: a strike that pries open a stalemate, a cleave that pries apart a shield of invulnerability, a reminder that every alliance carries a crack through which opportunity can slip. It is said to respond to intent as much as to strength, rewarding those who understand that severance can be a bridge to a wiser alliance—or a necessary exit from a ruinous one. For a veteran hunter or a tactician on the march, the Divider of Severance is a storyteller’s tool and a battlefield compass, pointing toward the moment where a decision in the clash of arms reshapes a village’s fate. Market whispers give the blade a ghostly price, a fee that drifts like smoke with the wind of demand. A trader’s ledger glances toward Saddlebag Exchange, where the posted price flutters between gold and silver as if the market itself hesitates before the next severance of a vow. A buyer might pay a premium when rumor swirls of a raid repelled by a single, precise cut; another day, the same blade sits low on the shelves, waiting for a buyer who understands that value here is not just in the edge, but in what the edge can cut away and what it can reveal.