His advisers tried to stop him. His aides. His retainers.
It was only the king’s voice that cut through the desperate haze of grief. “Price Rohan.”
Even now he could not dishonor his father. Standing, he saluted, ashamed of the mud that stained his surcoat and crusted his fingernails.
His father nodded toward the path. “Walk with me.”
Of course his father didn’t yell. His father never yelled.
That made it all the worse.