Frost Legion Infusion glows with a pale frost-blue light, sealed inside a slender shard of crystal that seems to hum with winter air. A whisper of condensation clings to its edges and the surface is etched with silver runes—sharp, ancient, and looping—like ice grown into patterns of memory. When you tilt it, a micro-mist drifts from the capsule, as if a breath of frost had been pressed into glass. The texture under the fingertips is cool and strangely velvet, the cold settling in your bones in a way that doesn't frighten you but reminds you of long nights on the borderlands. It feels almost alive, as if the artifact remembers every time a blade met frost, every step through snow, every oath spoken under an auroral sky. Legends say the Frost Legion tempered their weapons and armor with cold magic that could listen to a warrior's heart. This infusion was their signature: a binding that could shade a forge-born steel with frost’s patience, granting resistance against heat and haste of battle, while conserving their grip on the world when winter pressed in. Soldiers wrote of it in battered journals, scribes sealed it in wax, and in the markets the rumor travels faster than the coin: a talisman that can be worn, that can be used, that remembers the chill of victory and the sting of retreat. To hold a Frost Legion Infusion is to cradle a piece of that exile and endurance—an echo of a legion that chose to stand still while the world moved on the ice. In practical terms, this infusion is a rare way to tailor gear beyond the ordinary. When embedded in armaments or armor, it invites frost-born resonance—an aura of cool calm in the heat of combat, a subtle sharpening of focus on the cold front, a chance to lean into ice-heavy strategies without abandoning the rest of your build. It’s prized by those who chase sky-blue glimmers of power, by careful crafters who balance vitality with discipline, and by players who want a tangible story behind their stat upgrades. The Frost Legion Infusion doesn’t just patch a weakness; it alters tempo, shaping how you approach a skirmish and how you measure the weight of your next swing. On a gray dawn, the item's name appears on a stall led by Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-outpost where traders measure risk in stories as much as in coins. The seller unfurls the velvet-trimmed display and lets the infusion catch the light, the frost running along the glass like a frozen river. The price tag is written in time-seasoned ink—roughly three gold and a handful of silver—plus a glimmer of glacial crystals that can sweeten the deal for the right buyer. Buyers circle with wary smiles, bargaining with endurance, trading rumors and coins, each whispering about the frost that might finally tilt the odds in their favor. In such moments, the infusion becomes less a gadget and more a hinge in the larger market of memory and risk.