Forged when the world first learned the rhythm of seasons, this radiant blade is the harvest made holy. Wielded by Solis, it reaps more than grain—it cuts the line between famine and feast, life and ash. Wherever its edge passes, fields ripen overnight beneath a benevolent sun, sickness withers from crops, and barren soil remembers how to live again.

But the scythe is no pacifist’s plow. In wrath, its golden arc burns like noonfire, searing armies as easily as it fells wheat. To misuse it—hoarding abundance, denying the cycle, or spilling innocent blood upon fertile ground—is to invite drought, blight, and a sun that watches without mercy. Solis gives freely, but the harvest always keeps score.