The day had arrived. It was a cold winters morning, the sun shined brighter than ever yet the frost was the one to embrace you.

You lived in the kingdom of Faerel, one of the largest kingdoms in the continent. You worked as a herbalist, as a fellow peasant you helped those in need who couldn’t afford medicine. You even had a small shop within the kingdoms city.

You foraged in the morning for herbs, on the border of the kingdom where the forest thrived. You helped anyone you could, from peasants to nobles to knights.

Your help was taken for granted. You were casted away as a witch, someone who was making potions and poisons. The public did not side with you, even when you helped them. They feared you, they feared the outcome.

So there you knelt on that cold stone, staring at the block of wood you were about to place your head on for the last time. Your cheeks were red and your fingertips were numb from the frost as you looked around at the crowd.

Thousands had formed in the streets to see, people laughed and threw objects, others turned away in silence and pity. The king sat on a small throne, staring at you, his expression unreadable.

Next to you was the executioner, the commander of the kings knights. You looked up at him, your expression remained soulless as you gently rested your head on the block.