“Wizard good. Small boons for village folk.” Abia sighs, and for a long moment, listens to the sounds of Fassn’s dental work. “Witch bad,” she continues. “Curse crops, cause drought. Village folk burn.” She watches Shyan closely. Shyan meets her gaze, then sweeps her eyes to encompass Abia’s loose, shimmery robes, her piled, braided hair.
“So?” Shyan says.
“So,” Abia replies.
Shyan grins, turns her attention to Ulxurix working in Fassn’s mouth. Behind her, Cang studies some glittery trinkets on her shelves, his fingers subtly waggling as though anxious to grab something, anything.
“Careful what you choose there, dearie,” says Ulxurix, without looking away from her labour. “Souvenirs make the best magic.”