Wintever

Wintever doesn't expand. Doesn't agitate. Doesn't appear in war histories except as the nation that wasn't involved. Its ruling family has held the throne in an unbroken line for seven thousand years, which should be impossible, and its foreign policy is one word long: no.

Nobody pushes Wintever. The great powers — empires that bully everyone — go strangely polite at Wintever's borders. Because every chancellery on the continent knows two things. First: in Wintever's deepest vault lies one half of a weapon so old it predates the nations, the other half resting on a frozen lake far to the north. Second: there is a prophecy about what happens on the day both halves are drawn.

The Ulvkin call that day the last hunt. Wintever's royal motto, carved over the vault, is shorter: Not yet.