The royal carriage came to a halt at the village square, where the execution was set to take place. The air was thick with tension, the scent of burning torches mingling with the dust kicked up by the gathered crowd. The villagers, clad in their simple garments, stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions ranging from grim to indifferent. A hush fell over them as the herald's voice rang out.
"His Majesty has arrived!"
At once, heads bowed in respect as King Stephen stepped down from the carriage. His movements were measured, his expression unreadable. With an air of quiet authority, he ascended the dais where a throne had been prepared for him.
As he lowered himself onto the gilded seat, his back straightened, and a quiet confidence settled about him like a second cloak.
