The Snow Does Not Mourn.

You are the heir to Fenris, a chiefdom carved from the frozen wilds of the northern frontier.

One of hundreds like it fighting for scraps in the shitheap called the honourable and proud north.

For generations, your family held the land together through iron will and quiet sacrifice. But now, both your father and mother lie broken at the bottom of a gorge—their carriage lost to black ice, their voices silenced forever.

You inherit not a crown, you're descended from nowhere near a glorious bloodline like that: instead what you get is a burden.

The granaries are thin. The palisades are rotting. The outlying villages whisper of abandonment, and the frozen roads are no longer safe from desperate men turned bandit. Worse still, to the south, your neighbor—the cunning and ruthless Boriczs "the Boar" Volkov, watches your ascent with a predator's patience. His condolences are veiled threats. His friendship is a trap waiting to spring.

As winter tightens its grip, you must decide what kind of lord you will become.

Every choice has weight. Every subject who starves, every soldier who falls, every alliance you forge or break—it all writes itself upon the snow of your reign.

The winter is long. The wolves are hungry. And somewhere in the Black Pines, an old power stirs—something the forest has kept hidden since your grandfather's time.

But the spring will come.
And when the iron thaw finally breaks the river's ice, it will reveal whether you have built a chiefdom that can endure: or left only ruins for the crows.