Revenge sits on the table like a sleeping storm: a blade of shadowed steel, the surface so smooth you can see your own fear reflected back at you. The edge is a razor-thin whisper, catching the light in a way that makes it look almost hungry. The runes along the fuller pulse a dull, inward red, as if they drew blood from the air itself, and the hilt is wrapped in worn leather that has begun to smell faintly of rain and copper. The guard curls in a nod to old quarrels, two tails of metal meeting in the middle as if they’re about to seal a vow rather than guard a hand. It isn’t a weapon you carry so much as a memory you shoulder, and the weight feels like a verdict pressing down on your knuckles. There’s a story etched into its metal that the smith who forged it whispered to the flame: Revenge was tempered from ash and sound—a vow made by a hunter who watched her village burn and knew she could not let vengeance slip away. The blade binds itself to the bearer in a way that makes the world tilt slightly toward old wrongs and the cost of setting them right. When you draw it, you glimpse a pale thread of history—silhouettes of streets after dusk, a crowd dissolving into whispers, a single figure left standing with a resolve that won’t break. It’s less a tool and more a compass pointing toward a moment when someone chose to turn a page with a sharper ink. In combat, Revenge seems to find its own purpose. It doesn’t beg for glory; it tests the will to finish what was started. Wielders report a strange resonance: as long as you hold your line and don’t rush past what hurts, the blade grows more patient, and a quiet crimson glow climbs along the edge when you strike those who’ve wronged you. It rewards restraint and timing, turning patient defense into a counter-strike that feels almost ceremonial—a reminder that every duel isn’t only about who is strongest, but who keeps faith with their own vow longer. It harmonizes with a calm, deliberate style, whether you stand in a shield wall or slip through a skirmish to break a foe’s rhythm. For a group, it is the kind of weapon that can alter a fight’s cadence: a patient wielder can create openings for allies and remind the battlefield that vendettas can be as strategic as they are personal. The market strands of this world are never quiet for long, and the price of such a relic rarely rests on coin alone. I watched a trader speak softly to a clot of buyers as dusk settled—the Saddlebag Exchange—the way a caravan’s dusk-lit stalls turn rumor into value. The murmured arithmetic shifted with every telling tale of debts repaid in full, and the asking price rose and fell like a pulse depending on which duelist had last held Revenge. One elder trader shrugged and said the blade trades for a memory and a favor as often as for silver, a currency that travels with stories as much as with metal. Even so, the blade’s allure kept drawing eyes back, a quiet reminder that some losses are paid forward in steel and resolve. Revenge isn’t merely a weapon; it’s a narrative you wear on your hip, a reminder that every choice leaves a trace. In the hands of the right person, it becomes a careful instrument of justice—and, in the wrong hands, a cautionary tale about how loudly a vow can sing when it finally meets a blade.