The Recipe: Zehtuka's Breastplate is a parchment-bound treasure, its edges singed from desert heat and its brittle surface etched with a map of overlapping steel plates, a Zehtuka sigil curling along the margin in a stubborn gold-luster. When you unfurl it, the diagrams look like a conversation between metal and leather, as if Zehtuka's smiths left notes for future hands to read, and the texture feels like worn parchment that remembers long sunlit days. The ink has a warmth to it, like the last glow of a desert sunset still clinging to the margins. The parchment carries a whisper of caravans, of furs and lanterns, and a claim that this recipe once guided a siege of heat and hunger and still shines whenever a smith breathes life into it. In the story of Zehtuka, a desert smith who bound wind and steel, the breastplate was said to be forged for a rider who could outrun a sandstorm. The blueprint lists layers of plates, each rivet a small oath to endurance, each seam a memory of a thousand mile journey across dunes. Those who own the page are bound to the tradition: to protect the heart and lungs of a traveler, to let the body move with the grace of a caravan on a long stretch of road. It is not merely metal; it is a tale worn into a chest piece. From a gameplay perspective, the recipe unlocks the ability to craft Zehtuka's Breastplate, a heavy, imposing chest piece that armor-clad characters reach for when the road grows dangerous and the world seems to tilt with hot wind. It speaks to the wearer’s resolve, offering dependable protection and a sense that you are wearing a piece of the desert’s memory as armor. The piece is sought after by those who run with harassing skirmishes and brutal bosses, who need steadfast coverage and a silhouette that says, “I have stood where the sun cut the air and I did not fall.” It also serves as a centerpiece for a broader Zehtuka set, tying a lineage of armor to the caravan’s legend and giving the wearer a badge of belonging in a world where stories are as valuable as steel. Prices drift through the market like heat mirages, and here the Saddlebag Exchange plays its own role. A rumor in the wind says someone picked up a copy for a tempting handful of silver, while the more curious traveler might barter with a few gold pieces, hoping to see the recipe offered in a trade so neatly calibrated it might have been drawn by Zehtuka himself. The exchange—the clink of coins, the rustle of cloth, the careful tally of a clerk’s ledger—becomes part of the object’s myth: a price tethered to memory, a price paid to preserve a story of endurance and craft. And when the plate is finally forged and worn, the warrior who bears Zehtuka's Breastplate can hear the desert breathe again, reminding them that every stitch carries a tale.