The fang is entirely untended. Horton Belwether, blacksmith, is nowhere to be found. Shyan, her head poked into the smithy to take a look around, steps fully inside, on some level expecting foul sorcery to chill her bones.
Instead, just the smell of iron, the crunch of shavings beneath her boots.
“Perhaps you would prefer we stay here, set up as smiths, run a shop,” Cang says, slipping well crafted horseshoes into the capacious pockets of his vest.
“Nah,” Shyan says. “I doubt you could hack it.”
Abia approaches the fang. Its violet glow washes over her dark skin. It paints her sclera purple. Something about its vibration, though to the eye it remains perfectly still, that tells her to pick it up, to cradle it, to touch flesh to fang.
“Can I trade my teeth?” Fassn asks from over her shoulder. “Maybe the witch will put this one in for me.”
Abia doesn’t hear him. Her fingers inexorably move toward the fang.