Kingdom of Latvia, Lata
In the square, a wooden scaffold had been hastily erected beside the old stone well, its timbers raw and dark with moisture. Wind whispered through the narrow alleys of Lata, carrying the scent of pine smoke and iron. Rows of citizens stood still, their breaths fogging in the air, some clutching children, others clutching nothing at all. Few spoke. All watched.
Eric stood atop the scaffold, hands bound tightly behind his back, frost catching in his beard. He wore only a threadbare grey tunic, stained from the prison wagon and barely enough to shield him from the wind that cut like razors. His once-regal bearing was reduced to a gaunt shadow. His beard unkempt, his cheeks hollowed by weeks of imprisonment. But his eyes—his eyes were wide, sharp with something between fear and disbelief.
He saw them: the faces. The people he had sworn to save. Some still recognized him. A few averted their gaze. One old man spit in the snow.
"Make way!" barked a soldier.
