Winter's Heart Infusion rests in a slanted, teardrop bottle, the glass frosted with a blur of snowflake fractals. Inside, a pale-blue liquid swirls like a twilight sky after a blizzard, and a tiny heart-shaped crystal floats in the center, suspended by an almost invisible frost halo. The stopper is a cap of ivory ice, etched with fine runes that shimmer when you tilt the bottle toward a candle. The scent is sharp and clean, a breath of pine and cold metal, as if winter itself were being coaxed into a cup. It feels heavy in the hand, not just with cold but with memory—like a winter night carried in glass. Old tavern lore says this infusion was born during a Wintersday when a lone healer bound a frost spirit into a vial to warm the exhausted. The story travels from wood-lined posts to moonlit docks, where a merchant would press the bottle into a weary hand and whisper that it keeps promises made in cold air. In game terms, Winter's Heart Infusion is a seasonal collectible, its truth lying in what it unlocks: a reminder that warmth can be purchased, even if it is memory. The texture—silky, cool, velvet—echoes stepping from frost-choked night into a fireside room. When used, it becomes a thread in a larger tapestry. Crafters blend it with winter-season components to forge accessories bearing a frost-drawn emblem, or to empower a weapon with icy light. Adventurers tie it to quests that awaken a sleeping winter spirit, letting a town taste spring’s rumor. Its signature is the link it forges among traders, crafters, and wanderers—a peg in the seasonal economy, a lure for rare recipes, a story told around a warm brazier after a long day in snow. In a market night, you hear the tale more than its numbers reveal. On Saddlebag Exchange, the Winter's Heart Infusion price drifts with the calendar—not rare, not common, but it bounces when Wintersday recipes drop. A trader points to the chalkboard and notes the infusion fetches a fair sum, enough to cover a meal and a small talisman, especially as supply tightens before the festival peak. Buyers haggle with the same relaxed urgency you hear in riverside markets, trading for a piece of the season’s memory as much as for its utility. The market’s rhythm—steady, bright, a touch surprised when a new batch appears—seals the deal. The air finally eases as night settles over the market stalls, and the bottle seems to glow a fraction brighter, as if it understands you’ve chosen to carry a story forward rather than simply an item. Winter’s Heart Infusion is more than a reagent; it is a hinge between memory and action, a reminder that even in a world of marching quests and fixed routes, the best gear arrives with a tale you can tell by the fire later that evening. And in the end, Winter's Heart Infusion is remembered not for its price but for the warmth it leaves in a campfire circle.