There are pressing matters. For one, his wife (his, his, his) has abandoned him for Crystalglass, a daymonth ago, and Irrylath has sought counsel from the greatest minds in the world but none have magics to undo what Ravenna had done to her, to Aeriel. So when he finds himself once more in this City, in this place where day and night are mere fractions of moments, where a fortnight is a day and a night passing smoothly, dancing around each other, he goes to the place where they met last.

Where they met last.

Irrylath hates the sound of that, hates the heart beating in his chest that is his own. He is no longer the keeper of his wife's heart, and he had squandered the time he was. But he is more royal, more regal, than ever before.