The sentence dropped heavily. Ludwig didn't decorate it, didn't plead or soften it. It was an order disguised as advice, the kind that came from someone who had already accepted a set of ugly outcomes and was trying to reduce the number of bodies in them.
"No," the prince said, "I'll see this to the end. I want to see the end of this river, what caused these pour souls to be stuck here."
The refusal was immediate, stubborn in a way that had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with purpose. Even drained, even pale with fatigue, the prince's voice held that core of command that had been forged into him since birth. He looked at the river as if it was a wound that needed to be closed, not a path to avoid.
"Your funeral," Ludwig said as he simply called back his mace and sword into his ring and began moving forward.
