Logan's POV
I take Týr's hand.
It feels as strange as it looks— the mist shaped like a hand is cool against my skin, a touch both there and not. My fingers pass through his slightly, as if I'm shaking hands with a ghost. It has little to do with the fact that I am the ghost and it makes my skin prickle.
"The pleasure's mine," I say, forcing my voice steady.
Týr's mouth quirks into a smirk, as if the answer gave him a pure shot of dopamine. Then he turns from me and addresses the hall, his voice a sea at rest; eerily calm.
"Tell me, brothers and sisters," he says boldly, "why do you waste your breath squabbling like children? Why batter words back and forth like fools when the solution is simple?"
Thor growls deeply and angrily, a rumble of faraway thunder reaches my ears. "Yes, Týr. Come right in! Go on and pretend you're wiser than all of us, will you?"
