Berserker's Iron Hammer of Fire hung in the light, a forge-black head glowing with embers, its iron flanges catching gold from the sun and throwing it back as sparks. The handle, wrapped in soot-dark leather, bears the smooth wear of battles long past, where grip and will learned to convert fear into decisive blows. Runes scuttle along the head like living ash, and a vein of molten copper maps a quiet, dangerous heat through the metal. When you lift it, the hammer hums with a low warmth, as if a small sun sleeps inside, waking only for a strike. It is said to be tempered by a heat-born smith from the Iron Dominion, a crew that once raided caravans and carved names into the rock of a mountain pass. The hammer's edges are sharp enough to bite through chain and courage alike, and the fire it bears is not mere show—it's the memory of a berserker's vow, the moment his spirit fused with flame to carve a path through a siege. In the lore, those who wield the Berserker's Iron Hammer of Fire are said to channel that blaze into rending blows, turning a forge-worn battlefield into a field of light, where firelight clings to armor like a second skin. Among players, it is prized for its blend of raw power and dramatic presence. In combat, the weapon's fiery aura softens the air and raises the stakes: on critical hits, a flare lashes outward, singeing shields and leaving a scorch on banners. The hammer is heavy enough to require a steady shoulder, yet precise enough to stagger a veteran defender with one thunderous blow. For the frontline, it becomes a rallying cry—a beacon that makes comrades lean into the conflict with renewed vigor. For the skirmisher, it is a ticking clock, the flame reminding you that time is scarce and every strike must count. Market life has a way of moving around such relics, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the chatter gathers speed. Traders murmur about price, weighing the hammer's worth against a promise of blaze that never ends. A vendor lowers the hammer’s head and eyes the crowd as if listening for its heartbeat. I paused there, near Saddlebag Exchange, letting the scent of oil and leather braid with incense from a nearby stall while the numbers drifted across whispered tongues. The price, quoted in gold, shifted with rumors of a siege in the borderlands and with the season’s wind. A silver-tongued merchant finally offered a fair trade, not only for the hammer but for the story it carried—the memory of a berserker who burned away fear and left behind a legend in ash and iron. Walking away, I felt the metal press a quiet pressure against my palm, as if the hammer sought a new chapter to light. On the way back, the road carried its name in every bargain and clink of coin, while a distant bell echoed the hammer's call for a new day to dawn.