A howling blizzard swept down from the jagged Scandinavian peaks.
Sub-zero winds whipped across the vast stone plaza outside the Silver-Dawn Frost Cathedral. The ancient cathedral loomed like a colossal mountain of black basalt and frozen white ice, its sharp spires piercing the storm-gray sky. Five hundred thousand mortal pilgrims, devout worshippers, and northern tribesmen stood shivering in the heavy snow.
The air was so cold that breath turned to falling ice crystals before hitting the ground.
Many of the northern pilgrims had traveled for weeks on wooden dog sleds through the arctic blizzards. They revered Paladin Arthur Pendelton, who had spent ten years defending their isolated mountain hamlets from frost trolls, mountain wolves, and bandits.
Now, they watched in horror as their beloved defender was paraded like a common criminal.
Flanking the plaza were two hundred black-iron mercenary guards in spiked armor, holding heavy halberds and repeating crossbows to keep the crowd back.
In the center of the elevated granite execution dais stood an iron pillar wrapped in dark, glowing frost-runes.
Bound tightly to the frozen pillar by heavy dark-iron chains was Arthur Pendelton.
