Ravenbreath

Cold Resolve Beneath Iron Banners: When the North Marches

The wind howls through mountain passes, carrying with it the sharp crack of war banners and the steady thunder of drums. Snow does not slow them—it marches with them, cloaking armor in frost and hiding their numbers in a wall of white. They do not shout. They do not boast. Their silence is the weight of inevitability.
At their front rides a figure carved from winter itself—eyes like frozen stone, grip like iron. He does not command with words, but with presence, each step forward a declaration of what’s to come. Mercy does not ride with the North. Only purpose.