A mythic warband chronicle in sixteen decrees

They did not come for conquest. They came for memory.

The warband crossed the frostline in silence. No drums. No banners. Only the crunch of snow and the whisper of oath. In Frost March, they entered the Lost North — a realm buried in silence and forgotten flame. There, they found the Sigil of the Forgotten Flame, etched into stone and time, pulsing faintly beneath the ice.

A lone figure watched from the heights — the Warden of Hollow Peaks — neither ally nor foe, but a sentinel of what once was. Beneath the ice, the warband heard Echoes Beneath the Ice, voices of the dead, of broken oaths, of names lost to frost.

Then came betrayal.

The Betrayer’s Crown rose from the ruins, a false king clinging to hollow legacy. The warband did not kneel. They enacted the Ritual of Reclamation, carving new marks into the land and into themselves. The North stirred. The North Remembers — not with words, but with wind and flame.

They learned that Silence Is a Weapon, wielded by the land itself. The traitor spoke again — The Betrayer’s Tongue — but his words burned. The warband lit the Sigil Burns, turning sacred marks into fire. They cast off old names and took The New Name, not for glory, but for imprint.

As the snow melted, blood ran beneath it — Blood in the Snowmelt — sacrifice revealed, not mourned. They found the Hollow Crown, untouched, unclaimed. They did not take it. They burned it in Emberwake, the final fire.

The sigils cracked. Sigilfall was not a collapse — it was a transformation. The warband did not flinch. They marched.

And in Legacy March, they did not return. They did not rebuild. They left no crown. Only memory. Only imprint. Only the invasion of the Lost North.

Frost March

Xiao BaiMalz