The other man instantly deflated, his gaze gaining the same blank look as all of the others. He was only a Prince, and didn't even have a Mandate or Edict to his name, much less a Throne. Only the connected and the powerful had access to those in the Aldark, and he was just some unlucky sod who had been banished shortly after his Coronation.
Compared to the soldiers, who had been trained, given Thrones to push them to the Aspiring King rank, and handed all the Mandates and Edicts they could want, he might as well have been a clump of dirt trying to smother a mountain.
The cook left it at that, trying to help the burned man stand. The man was as limp as a dead fish, and wasn't responding to his murmurs, but he kept trying. "The mess hall is closed for the next hour," he said to those still here. "You're all free to stay, but don't touch the food, or I'll cut your rations."
