A season that ends is kept rather than deleted. This is the register of the ones that have — and, at the time of writing, it is empty, because none has.
Does the world ever reset?
That is not decided, and this page is not going to pretend otherwise.
There is a real argument on both sides. A world that ends and begins again keeps the front door open: nobody accumulates two years of advantage over somebody who arrived last week. A world that never ends is the one this game keeps describing everywhere else — persistent, patient, a holding rather than a session — and an ending would take back the thing that makes a long build worth starting.
The honest version is that it depends on a question the game has not answered yet: is losing everything to a neighbour survivable? If it is, the world can run forever and the front door stays open by other means. If it is not, something has to reset. That has to be settled before the war layer is built, not after it — so it will be answered by playing, and it will be written here when it is.
An earlier version of this page said a season runs thirteen weeks and then scatters. That was the schedule of a different, cancelled game, and it should not have outlived it. If you read it and planned around it, this paragraph is the correction.
What the register keeps
Whatever is decided, the database was built so that an ending is a record rather than a deletion. A closed season keeps the day it opened, the day it closed, and how many stewards held ground in it. The table above reads those rows directly from the game; it is not a copy kept in step by hand.
Titles outlive the season that named them. A title stores the season’s number rather than pointing at it, so an honour earned stays legible long after everything else about that season has been filed away. That was a decision in the very first migration, taken before this website existed, and it is the reason this page can exist at all.
Nothing that costs money is seasonal. Appearance, titles and keepsakes are permanent and cross whatever boundary the world turns out to have — which is also why they are the only things that are ever sold. The game does not sell goods, build time, or an edge in a live contest.
Why the endings would be kept in public
A world that quietly forgets its own past is a world nothing that happened in it mattered to. If a season does close, the register is where it stays legible — who held ground, how long it ran, and what was carried out of it. Written down in one place, by the game, without anyone having to remember to.
That is the same instinct the fiction runs on. The Old Work is four centuries gone and still perfectly readable in the ground, and the whole mood of this world comes from the difference between a thing that was destroyed and a thing that was finished.
The Elder Kin have a habit the charter-folk find unnerving. They will name a steward two hundred years dead in exactly the tone they use for a neighbour — no elegy, no correction, because to them the distinction has not become important yet. A human hears that and understands, all at once, how short a life is and how long a name can last.
That is what this page is for. Whether the world resets or runs forever, the job of the register is the same: that in some year nobody has thought about yet, a line written here is still legible, and still says that somebody held ground, and for how long, and what they carried out of it.