“This is no surprise,” Cang says. “I always knew we’d vanish into a throne together some day.”
“And just like that, those two jump in? Caution, meet wind?”
“Because of course they do.” Shyan scowls. “I guess there’s nothing valuable in here after all.” She gestures at the empty, airy space, squints up against the last red rays of the sinking sun.
“Value is found in perspective,” Cang says. He sits near the throne, withdraws a journal, and takes a brief sketch. He coughs, waves away the clotting stench.
Shyan taps at the flagstones around it with the pommel of her sword. Finding nothing, she grunts in frustration.
Cang packs his things. “Into the throne?”