Recipe: Zehtuka's Bastion rests on the workshop bench, a parchment sheet browned by candle soot, its edges curled like dried leaves. The inked diagram sprawls across it—iron plates, copper rivets, and rune clusters arranged around a central stone sigil that seems to glow faintly when you tilt the page toward the lamp. The texture is odd to the touch: fibrous parchment pressed over a whisper-thin sheet of metal, so it feels at once brittle and obstinately sturdy, as if the recipe itself is meant to weather a hundred sieges. A copper seal, stamped with the sigil of Zehtuka, digs into the corner, leaving a warm thumbprint if you press it right. The whole thing smells faintly of lamp oil and resin, as if a forge’s breath still lingers within its folds. This is no mere list of materials; it’s a map to a fortress made of stone and will. In the margins, small notes hint at Zehtuka’s history—a legend of a siege near a salt-swept coast where a craftsman carved a bastion from ash, iron, and the stubbornness of a stubborn unit. The Bastion in question, the one this recipe promises, is a deployable outpost—an anchor that can be erected in the middle of a skirmish to shelter allies and choke points from the world’s harsher angles. When assembled with the right components, it rises as a compact, shielded platform, a bulwark that channels a protective aura, mends wounded morale, and pushes back the darkness of the battlefield. It’s a tool for the strategic-minded, a tangible statement that defense can be art as surely as it is a habit. In practice, capturing Zehtuka’s Bastion means more than collecting parts. It means guiding a team toward a moment when the battlefield itself becomes a page you can turn. I’ve watched technicians lay the blueprint on a wooden table, then pour over the rune sequences as if they were coordinates on a star map. When the last rivet seats and the sigil flares, the Bastion unfurls in a hush of stone and light, and the party behind it finds a rhythm—two steps forward, one step back—while the wreathe of enemies is corralled into a managed choke. It’s not simply damage mitigation; it’s territory control, a narrative device that lets you write a counter-attack into the middle of a fight. Prices drift with the market’s breath, of course, and that breath carries whispers through the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders bargain and fingers gesture under rope-and-silt awnings. A note on the parchment can fetch a price that sighs around a few gold coins, a sum that climbs when scarcity bites and falls when new wares appear. The recipe’s value isn’t only its metal and cloth; it’s the story it allows to unfold—how a fortress can be built out of resolve as much as stone, and how the spark of Zehtuka’s Bastion endures in every skirmish where a line holds. It remains a legend in the forge, waiting for a captain to call it.