Tyla’s POV
The aftermath is quieter than the crisis.
That surprises me.
I expect echoes—aftershocks, recriminations, some lingering tremor that proves how close we came to collapse. Instead, what follows is a kind of collective fatigue, deep and honest, settling over the city like evening fog.
People are tired.
Not defeated. Not victorious.
Just… spent.
The grain stores stabilize, unevenly but enough. The blight retreats into memory, not erased, but documented with the careful handwriting of people who know forgetting is a luxury they cannot afford. The northern routes reopen under shared watch. No fanfare accompanies it. No declarations of success.
Life resumes in fits and starts.
And in that slow return, I see something new take shape.
—
Arthur doesn’t attend the council for a
