The halls echo with his footsteps. No other sound greets him. Those servants too frightened to quit go quiet when they sense him nearing. The few loyal guards not out suppressing uprisings that still spark here in the countryside glare silently as he passes. He doesn't know where the deserters are. He doesn't have enough men left to track them down and drag them back.

Tamlin sits down on his throne, which feels for all the world like it's built from glass shards and straw, and pulls his knees up to his chest

He looks weak, but that feel appropriate.