The throne entices Cang, entices them all. Its empty seat beckons, suggests a crown. Glory, riches, followers, sycophants reinforcing your every decree. Cang licks his lips. He starts towards the centre of the room, but Shyan stays his step with a hand on his shoulder.
“Not going to check for traps?” she asks quietly.
Cang scoffs to hide his injured pride. “That is just what I’m doing, Shyan,” he says, his voice tinged with a haughty air. “Thank you very much.”
Fassn, oblivious, says, “I’m gonna sit on it,” and hurries off. He cups his face against the unearthly stink.