But so far, he remains an empty shell, intent on staring at the wall, and I’m not sure what to do. I don’t blame him for this state. Atlas caused this, and I shouldn’t expect anything from Tyr. He doesn’t owe us anything.

The heads of all of the twenty-four districts sit around the table I had brought in because Tyr refuses to enter the council chamber. Though he hasn’t explicitly said so, I think it’s a place of too many painful memories and the last thing he remembers from when he was still a king. No one hears his soft plea because these peacocks are all too busy arguing with one another.

“Are you okay?” he asks me so softly that I barely hear the words, only see the shape he forms with his mouth. My heart feels like lead in my chest. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to help put him back together. He needs a better man than I could ever be. He needs a different purpose.

“I’m fine,” I say, gruffer than I intend. None of this is his fault, and I know that. I’ve always known that, and despite playing witness to my every shortcoming, he’s never judged me for who I am.

I watch the High Fae surrounding the table. They include Commander Cornelius Heulfryn of the most affluent Twenty-Fourth District, whose daughter is currently making my life hell, down to the head of the First District, where the more modest citizens of Aphelion live, though their stations are far above those of the low fae. Currently, everyone is arguing about the leadership of the kingdom.

According to Tyr, the Mirror sat silent when he stood before it for two hours yesterday while they all watched. Something tells me he wasn’t entirely forthright about that but isn’t ready to discuss his future. I can’t blame him for that either.

By rights, Tyr has always been the king, and there should be no question of who should lead. The district heads claim Tyr isn’t fit to rule in this state, and it’s hard to argue with them. They can’t force him to descend, but they can question his leadership. The Artefacts’ role is to decide who is the most fit to rule, but their choices are sometimes imperfect. I assume it’s because their vision is limited and even they can’t know the future.

My gaze wanders to the streets, where I hear the distant crash of the ongoing riots. Glass shattering and panicked screams. The sounds and the fighting swell and ebb with each passing day. Just when I think things might have finally calmed down, something happens to revive them anew. Ash hangs perpetually in the air, clouding the blue sky, and the ocean is a dark blot, littered with charred wood, clothing . . . and invariably, more bodies than I care to think about.