A tall bell tower stands in Frostcrest. By custom, it chimes eight times a day at three-hour intervals, marking the time for the town's inhabitants. The clear, melodious tolls travel far, heard even in the open wilderness beyond the city walls.
Today, however, was different.
At four in the afternoon, a time it should have been silent, the bell began to clang. It rang not once, but thirteen times.
All across the domain, the people of Frostcrest stopped their work, their eyes turning toward Snowmantle Citadel. They knew the sound. It was the lord's summons. Thirteen tolls meant a public execution.
The public square, normally quiet on a weekday, was now thronging with people.
Two lines of knights stood in solemn ranks, forming a cordon around the perimeter. Behind them, in the center of the square, a high wooden platform had been hastily erected. Upon it stood a sturdy gallows, a knotted noose swaying gently in the breeze.
