And so the morning passed. The sun cruised through the clear, blue sky above as every hour passed by, the time for the execution drawing near. The prison yard outside became busier throughout the morning. The guards began assembling throughout the yard and lining the castle walls above, their red tunics and silvery armor shining in the burning light of the sun. The people of Dalhorst began fluctuating into the crowded yard, peasant and commoner alike, all here to witness the former heir of Alvion, Princess Cecilia Alderton, beheaded for treason. A sort of temporary grandstand along the far right well had been constructed for the noble class, with a canopy for shade and wooden chairs, while the common-folk were forced to stand in the open yard, the golden sun above blazing down rays of heat, making many of them uncomfortably hot.

The chopping block had been placed on the large gallows at the far end of the yard, yet the headsman was yet to be seen. By an hour till noon, the normally desolate prison yard was bustling with people, rather overcrowded in fact. Voices filled the air, some loud and boisterous, some quiet and somber. The crowd held a mixed multitude of feelings regarding the execution to come. Where some saw it as a traitor's punishment and justice, others saw it as villainous and treachery in itself. Not all supported the ruling of Malva Alderton, the Serpent Queen of Alvion.

The silence of the dungeon was once more split by the clicking of boots on the stone floor. But these were not the polished fine leather boots of Malcolm Alderton, but rather the worn brown leather boots of a guardsman.

An Alvionish soldier rounded the corner and stood before the door of the Princess's cell. He was adorned in the standard uniform and equipment of Alvionish soldiers; a suit of linked chainmail armor, a blood red tunic worn over it, the front of which was emblazoned with a golden dragon breathing a spout of flame into the sky, the Alvionish coat-of-arms. He wore worn leather boots, hide bracers on his forearms, and on his head sat a dome shaped open faced helmet. He was an older man in his early forties roughly. A grizzly black beard on his face, skin already wrinkled with age and tanned by the sun.

No sooner had he arrived than he raised a small key from his left hand and inserted it into the rusty door lock. After a scraping rattle, the lock turned and the man opened the door wide, holding it open with his left hand.

"It's time, Your Majesty, let's go." The rugged soldier said, his voice deep and powerful.