Frost Legion Infusion gleams in a slender, hand-blown glass vial, a shard of pale blue ice captured like a whisper. Inside, micro-snowflakes drift around a core of frost-lit light, and the liquid glints with a patient cold that seems to murmur in a language older than most stories told beside a forge. The stopper is wrapped in copper wire etched with the insignia of the Frost Legion, the script along the glass chipped and weathered by hands that have traded many winters’ worth of secrets. It feels almost alive to the touch, cool as a clear dawn and just brittle enough to remind you that its power is kept, not given freely. Lore says the infusion was forged in the frost-temples of the Shiverpeaks by frost-wielding guardians who bound a long-buried relic into a shard of winter itself. It is a relic’s echo, a promise that even on the coldest days a person can carry a memory of the guard who stood between a village and the edge of a glacial rumor. When you hold it, you can imagine the muffled crunch of snow beneath a march, the soft gleam of runes carved into ice, the way breath fogs in cold air and then clears as if nothing happened at all. In practice, the Frost Legion Infusion slides into gear the way a door slides on ice: with a quiet, confident touch that leaves a subtle shimmer in its wake. Worn on armor or weapons, it awakens a frost-tinted aura that speaks of old orders and long journeys, a visible reminder that the wearer has walked through storms and kept moving. It isn’t just about look; the infusion activates a frost-linked effect that players notice most when they’re crossing wind-swept plains, delving into icebound ruins, or standing at the edge where water meets frost. The effect does not overhaul a build, but it does thread a cold motif through the fight—cooling heat in the sense of mood, sharpening focus in the heat of battle, and lending a glow that others recognize as a sign you’ve chosen a path steeped in winter’s memory. Market days push that story forward, and into that story steps Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan market that travels between towns with a chorus of boots on wood and the clink of coin. A stall under a tanned canvas bears the Frost Legion Infusion, its glass catching stray sunlight as a child points to the pale glow and wonders aloud what name the runes bear now. The vendor quotes a price that shifts with the weather—roughly a gold and fifty silver when the days are quiet, a little higher as rumors of frost drift across the roads, a touch lower when festival bells ring in a lull between storms. It’s the sort of negotiation that makes the item feel earned, worth a stop and a careful eye on the horizon. Holding the infusion, you sense you’re not merely equipping armor; you’re choosing to walk a lineage, to wear the memory of ice-carvers and gatekeepers who kept a vigil long after the last warm breath faded. It binds the wearer to a story larger than any single combat, a compact between traveler and guardian, between market stall and battlefield, between winter’s edge and the warmth of a shared tale.