Piece of Zhaitaffy sits on the counter like a fragment torn from a star: a shard of candy so glossy it mirrors the lamplight, swirled in midnight purple with ribbons of antique gold that seem to move when you’re not looking directly at them. The surface is a crackling glass, the kind that begs to be pressed softly between thumb and forefinger, as if you could coax a memory loose from its sugar-soaked core. When you lift it to your nose, there’s a strange duet of scents—smoke and cocoa, vanilla and something faintly almond, as if a bakery from a distant evening had wandered into a storm and left this tiny souvenir behind. The edge catches on your skin with a delicate snap, and a hush of sweetness blooms on your tongue even before you bite down—an ominous sweetness that feels almost ceremonial, as if tasting a tale as old as a Market lantern’s glow. Lore keeps a curious company with this confection. Tales tell of a confectioner who bargained with memory itself, sealing a recipe inside a piece of sugar so exquisite that it could glow when thunder rolled over the hills. Some scribes insist Zhaitaffy was born in a forgotten guild’s kitchen, a place where recipes were kept like secrets, and where every bite of this shard carried a whisper of a vow—the promise that delight can cross miles, even between rival factions and restless adventurers. The stories don’t always agree on what the shard does, only that it changes the moment you hold it up to a story you’ve told aloud—or a fact you’ve chosen to doubt. In the wild places of the world, you’ll find the piece tucked away in caches, tucked into the pockets of old maps, as if it were waiting to be found by someone who still believes in small miracles. In gameplay terms, the Piece of Zhaitaffy carries its own pocket of significance, a talisman that weaves into the world’s larger tapestry rather than standing alone. Players often treat it as a key to a side path—a route that leads to whispered lore, secret traders, and temporary, story-rich bonuses rather than straight combat power. A few fragments pass between hands in a shop or a quiet grove, traded for notes that unlock a confectioner’s vault, or for a recipe that yields a cosmetic badge, a delicate minature lantern, or a fleeting mood booster during a festival. It isn’t merely loot; it’s a prompt to pause, to listen to a tale, to follow a breadcrumb through a street market that sounds like rain on copper pots. Pricing and markets don’t exist in a vacuum, of course. The Saddlebag Exchange has become a kind of living diary for this item—a place where prices drift with the wind of events and the cadence of new stories. A week of festival chatter can nudge the piece’s value up or down, and seasoned traders will tell you that a fair price is less about exact silver counts and more about the trust you build with the buyer who believes this shard is not just candy, but a memory waiting to be reread. When you finally part with one, you’re not just swapping currency; you’re passing a question along to the next curious traveler, inviting them to taste the world’s small, stubborn sweetness and keep the story unfolding.