Recipe: Zehtuka's Flanged Mace rests on a carved oak table, its head a heavy slab of bronze that catches the workshop lamp with a warm, ember-red gleam. Four stout flanges jut outward, each edge polished to a gleam, and the metal bears a brushed texture like a tide-worn shield. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, scarred by years of use, and a faint scent of oil and smoke clings to the wood under the parchment. The page itself is a patient, stubborn thing, the ink a dark brown that has aged to a sepia glow, Zehtuka’s name written in a careful hand and a dragon-head watermark curling along the bottom margin. The parchment shows scorch marks along the edges, as if a stray flame once flirted with its corners, and there are maps of forge-lines drawn in the margins, guiding a craftsman’s eye toward balance. Open the recipe and you feel the same discipline that built a canyon-smith’s legacy: steps numbered with exactness, ingredients listed with the same cautious respect. The instructions aren’t flamboyant; they’re precise, as if Zehtuka believed in a weapon whose power comes from rhythm more than impulse. The mace designed by this recipe is intended for steady, unflinching blows, a tool that can grind through plate armor and hold a line when chaos swirls around the rim of the arena. In lore, Zehtuka was said to roam the old forges near the ember lakes, tempering metal with songs and sealing each blade with a vow to keep its wielder honest. The tale around this mace insists it was meant for those who measure every swing, who trust that a measured pace wins the long fight. In practice, the recipe has a resonance beyond its gleam. It invites a certain mindset for the player who uses it: tool and tale become one, the weapon’s mass and balance guiding the wrist toward certainty rather than bravado. The edge is enough to cut through the rigors of crowded skirmishes, the weight enough to anchor a frontline when the ground shakes under a blitz. It isn’t about flashy crits; it’s about a presence, the sense that a craftsman’s patience has become a battlefield ally. Saddlebag Exchange hums with talk of the page when markets swing toward old texts. Traders speak of the recipe’s price the way sailors speak of a favorable tide—tethered to rumors, to gold, to the hope of finding one who wants a legend as much as a weapon. A buyer might pay a handsome sum for the chance to wield Zehtuka’s name, and the page’s value rises or falls with the reputation of its maker. So the recipe travels from ledger to lathe, from memory to the morning grind, carrying with it the quiet authority of a smith who believed that a weapon should be more than metal—it should be a story you can swing. Some nights, the smiths gather by the flame and swap tales of failed tests and triumphant breakthroughs, under quiet stars alike.