Abia approaches the throne at an unhurried pace. Shyan and Cang follow behind her, angled away as points of defence, should further wheezing beasts emerge from the shadows.
None do. Only a deep, crushing silence fills the chamber. Their footsteps on the gravel resound with crunching echoes through the space. The wretched odour grows stronger as they approach.
Abia touches the throne. It’s gone. As though she’d pushed right through it, without resistance. She withdraws, and her hand reappears.
Cang and Shyan draw nearer. Cang openly stares at the sorcery before him — Shyan steals only quick glances, minding their flanks.
Without a word Abianarin presses further into the throne. She steps through and is there no longer.