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Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. Alarm bells ring, gruff voices bellow and scream and the crunching of boots on stone echoes round the town. A troop of soldiers surround you, their faces twisted and unnatural in the glare of their flaming torches. Your senses have been dulled by fatigue, and you are dragged from the saddle and disarmed before you have had a chance to react. Cold iron chains are wound tightly around your arms and body, and you are roughly pushed into a grey stone gaol. A wave of terror engulfs you as you catch a fleeting glimpse of a poster pasted to the gaol door. You see your own face before you; beneath it is written: ‘Death sentence—by order of Lord Roark, Highborn of Amory.’

Within the hour, your head is resting upon the executioner’s block. As the razor-sharp blade of a two-handed axe whistles towards your neck, the last sound you hear is the malicious and vengeful laugh of the young lordling.

Your life and your quest end here.