But his body had finally reached a point where anger could no longer command it fully.
He tried to roar, but blood rose in his throat. He spat it onto the snow, and the red stain spread beneath his huge paws.
All he could think about was Isabella.
For one terrible moment, he wanted to leave.
He wanted to turn away from the battle, force his way back into the palace, pick Isabella up, pick up her babies, and carry all of them somewhere no enemy could ever reach. He wanted to curl his huge body around them and shut the whole world outside.
He could not lose her.
He could not.
If something happened to her while he stood out here bleeding into the snow, then what was the point of being king? What was the point of having strength? What was the point of ruling anything if the person who changed everything was screaming in pain behind stone walls and he could not even hold her hand?
Another attacker came for him.
