“I cannot believe you let my mother die.”

Wilmer closed his eyes tight and turned his head away.

True drew breath in through his nose.

Much more calmly, he asked, “Now, do you agree to sign those papers?”

“I loved her,” his father said in reply.

True’s patience, already unraveled, frayed even further.

“That wasn’t the question I asked,” he pointed out.

Wilmer looked at him. “I am grieving, son.”

“So am I,” True returned. “The thing you don’t entirely understand, Father, is that what we feel, what we experience, what befalls us matters not. Someone has to rule. Someone always has to rule. We don’t get to retreat and take time to lick our wounds. We don’t get to snivel and rail. We must rule.” He paused to drive his last point home. “My mother taught me that.”

Wilmer flinched.

“Now, we are under attack,” True continued. “We must rout this Rising and set about doing it immediately. You allowed one of their own in this very castle to toy with you and loot our treasury to fund their efforts, a happenstance that not only lasted decades but ended with the queen being murdered. You want to retain the crown because you fear what will be written of you for posterity. I want the crown because I fear for the safety of my people. Tell me, Father, in those instances, who should wear that crown?”

“You cannot possibly expect me to make this decision through my grief,” his father returned.

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?” True asked.

“True, be done with him,” Wallace called.

“You haven’t been given leave to speak,” Wilmer clipped at Wallace.

“I do not need your leave for I do not recognize you as my ruler,” Wallace shot back. “And not simply because my king does not make a man ask permission to speak his mind.”

True studied his men, particularly Bram, who demanded to be standing right there even if he should be flat on his back in a bed.

The arrow Bram took had not hit anything vital, but it had still gone through his midsection.

They needed rest, all of them.

And they needed this day to be done.

“Let us go,” True said wearily. “We’ll finish this on the morrow on the backs of our horses.”

The men nodded but hesitated as True moved their way, for they were preparing to flank him as they left.

“I’ll abdicate.”

All of them stopped and turned back to Wilmer upon hearing these quiet words.

“Say that again,” True demanded.

Wilmer leaned his way, his face twisted, and he shouted, “I’ll abdicate!”

True let out a long breath.

“And I will end this farce by sharing this,” Wilmer pointed to the floor, “precisely this is what Carrington warned me about.”

True felt his blood freeze.

The men around him shifted closer to him.

“He smirked at me when I made his cell this eve,” True told his father. “Triumphantly.”

Wilmer stared at his son.