Komalie's Sacrificial Blade gleams under the lantern's pale glow, a midnight-silver crescent that seems almost sharpened to a memory. The steel wears a whisper-thin grain, etched with silver runes along the fuller that catch the light like frost on a quiet pond. The hilt is wrapped in worn crimson leather, cracked at the edges, and the brass pommel bears a sigil that looks part moth, part flame—a seal of vow the old chronicles call a covenant mark. The blade’s edge has a tremor, as if it remembers the moment it tasted life, a texture that feels both cold and ancestral in the palm. Tap it and you hear a soft, dry sigh, as though the weapon itself is exhaling centuries of ritual. There’s a quiet lore attached to it, not loud but persistent. Komalie herself is said to have stood on a cliff and bled into a pact that kept a forsaken force behind locked gates. The blade, named for her, carries that oath in its marrow, a relic that marks not merely a weapon but a rite. In the right hands, the weapon is said to awaken remembered paths—those routes through forgotten sanctuaries and memory-haunted halls where the walls murmur in the old tongue. It isn’t just steel; it’s a thread that ties a personal vow to a larger, stubborn world. In gameplay terms, the blade behaves like a key as much as a weapon. When you bring it to the shrine at the edge of the Emberwild and lay it on the altar steps, the air thickens, and a voice that isn’t quite human whispers through the stones. Memories pour out in a scripted echo, revealing a hidden ritual that leads to a long-lost map and a cosmetic reward—a unique blade-skin that shivers with runes whenever you strike. It’s the kind of artifact that invites you to walk a path beyond fighting: a chain of quests that unravels the backstory of Komalie and the gate between worlds, offering a rare title for completing the rite and a sense that you’re stitching a torn tapestry back together. Pricing, of course, is a traveler’s story too. At a sun-washed stall in the market, the old trader’s eyes glint as he sizes you up, weighing your tale as you weigh the blade in your hand. He quotes a price that sits in the very human middle of wealth and risk—around three gold with a handful of silver to spare—and then he leans in, muttering that the market never stops turning. He speaks of Saddlebag Exchange, a traveling network where relics drift from palm to palm, every listing carrying a fragment of a story. A whisper here, a tale added there, and suddenly a blade’s worth isn’t just metal and lacquer but credibility, dream, and risk priced in coin. The exchange becomes a chorus, each traveler adding a note to Komalie’s ballad, every sale a new line in the ledger of memory. So Komalie’s Sacrificial Blade rests not just as a weapon but as a doorway. It invites you to trace the oath, to listen for the echo in the stones, and to walk a little further into the world where legends bleed into the present. It’s a relic that asks for more than combat; it asks for story, resilience, and the courage to gamble with risk and memory in equal measure.