The square in the heart of Frosthaven was packed with people, their breath rising in clouds of mist as the cold air bit at their faces. The sky above was a dull, oppressive gray, mirroring the grim mood of the crowd that had gathered beneath it. At the center of the square stood a hastily constructed platform, its dark wood stark against the snow-covered ground. Above it, nooses swayed gently in the wind, a harrowing symbol of the fate that awaited the prisoners.
The condemned families of several disgraced barons were lined up on the platform, their hands bound and heads bowed. Each of them had once held a place of prominence in the kingdom, but now they stood stripped of their titles, their legacies ruined. King Martin had declared them traitors to the crown, branding their families as enemies of the state. The banners of their once-great houses had been torn down and burned, and their names had been smeared with the stench of betrayal.
The crowd, restless and filled with anger, chanted for justice. "Hang them!" they cried, their voices rising in a deafening roar. "Traitors! Give them what they deserve!"
At the front of the platform, the chief magistrate of Frosthaven, Peter IV stood with an air of authority, his robes dark and foreboding. He raised a hand, and the crowd fell into a tense silence, eager for the trial's conclusion. It was no secret that the verdict was already determined; the trial had been little more than a formality to appease the masses. King Martin's decree had left no room for mercy.
"Today," the magistrate's voice rang out across the square, "we gather to deliver justice to the families of traitors, those who conspired against the kingdom. King Martin has branded these families as enemies of the crown, and today, they shall face the consequences of their betrayal."
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. The people of Obelia have suffered greatly, and they were hungry for retribution abd blood.
One of the condemned, an elderly woman draped in the faded finery of her fallen house, raised her voice in protest. "We were not the ones who conspired! Please spare the children, they are innocent!"
The crowd erupted in jeers and shouted accusations, drowning out her pleas. "Lies! Traitors!" they yelled. "No mercy for traitors!"
The magistrate, unyielding, gestured for silence. "You were complicit in the treachery of your houses," he said coldly. "King Martin's decree was clear: your failure to act against the traitors is as much a crime as the betrayal itself. You will answer for the bloodshed and chaos that your families unleashed upon this kingdom."
The people cheered, their bloodlust palpable. "Hang them! Make them pay!"
From behind the platform, the executioner stepped forward, his face concealed beneath a dark hood. One by one, the condemned were led to the nooses, their final moments approaching swiftly. As each one was positioned beneath the rope, the crowd grew louder, their chants echoing off the stone walls of the capital.
"Hear us, Frosthaven!" a man in the crowd shouted. "Let justice be served!"
The first prisoner, a young man barely out of his teens, was the son of one of the barons who had sided with the Snowveil family in their failed rebellion. His face was pale, and his lips trembled as the noose was tightened around his neck. He looked out over the sea of faces, searching for a hint of mercy, but found none.
The chief magistrate gave the signal. With a swift pull of the lever, the platform beneath the young man dropped. The crowd erupted in cheers as the noose snapped taut, and the body swung lifelessly in the cold air.
One by one, the same grim fate awaited each member of the disgraced families. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters—none were spared. Their legacy of betrayal was extinguished on the gallows, their names forever marked as traitors to the kingdom.
As the last body swung from the platform, the magistrate turned to the crowd. "Justice has been served," he declared, his voice rising above the din. "Let this be a warning to all who would dare conspire against King Martin's reign. We will not tolerate betrayal, and we will not forget those who sought to divide us."
The crowd roared its approval, but beneath the cheers, there was an undercurrent of unease. The executions had provided a brief sense of closure, but the kingdom's wounds ran deep. Frosthaven's people had witnessed justice, but they also knew that the turmoil was far from over.
As the bodies swayed in the cold wind, the people slowly began to disperse, the weight of what they had seen heavy on their hearts. The traitors were gone, but the kingdom's future remained uncertain.
----
Days passed and icy dawn light barely penetrated the overcast sky as the bustling port city of Castford came to life. The massive stone hearths in the docks still roared with warmth, but the air was brisk and biting. Ships of varying sizes were lined up, their hulls creaking under the weight of the cargo and the ice clinging to their sides.
Marius, bundled in his thick fur cloak, stood at the edge of the dock, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. He scanned the busy scene with satisfaction. His ships were loaded to capacity with supplies—grain, dried meats, and barrels of salted fish—each meticulously packed and covered to withstand the journey.
Tyra, her face set in a determined expression, paced alongside her fleet of sleek ships. Her crew moved swiftly, hauling ropes and securing cargo. Despite the cold, her ships gleamed with a promise of speed and precision. She glanced at the hired mercenaries who stood by the ships, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of trouble.
Olin, already aboard his ship, was finalizing the last of the provisions. His usually wiry frame was now encased in a thick, insulated coat. He checked the cargo, ensuring that everything was in order before giving a nod of approval.
The older merchant, Jarek, moved slowly but purposefully through the bustling docks. His years of experience showed in his calm demeanor as he directed his men to load the final crates. Despite the apparent age, his eyes still held a sharp, discerning glint.
As the last crate was hoisted aboard, Marius gathered the group together near the edge of the dock. "We set sail at first light," he announced. "We've got a long journey ahead of us, and the sooner we get through the Sea of Shards, the better."
Tyra's eyes narrowed as she checked her chronometer. "We'll need to navigate carefully. The ice is thinning, but the waters are still treacherous. Our mercenary escorts are good, but we can't afford any mistakes."
The hired mercenaries, a rough-and-ready bunch with a grim sense of purpose, began boarding the ships. They exchanged gruff nods with the merchant crews, their presence a reassuring shield against the potential threats of pirates and bad weather.
Jarek, adjusting his heavy coat, looked out over the frozen harbor. "The last time I was in Obelia, things were different. The nobles are desperate, and they'll pay well, but be ready for anything. The thaw may bring opportunity, but it also brings danger."
With a final check of the preparations, Marius turned to the group. "Let's get moving. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get ahead of the competition and secure our place in Rotengen."
As the ships slowly pulled away from the docks, the merchants exchanged last-minute instructions and well-wishes. The icy wind whipped through the rigging, and the creaking of the ships mingled with the distant calls of the dockworkers. The journey ahead was fraught with peril, but the promise of fortune drove them forward.
As the ships sailed out into the sea, the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the horizon, signaling the start of a new chapter in their treacherous journey to Rotengen.