Cang bows formally, like one of noble blood, trained his whole life in the court. Shyan returns it, but her technique is sloppy, comparatively, and Cang suppresses a chuckle.
Fassn’s patting at his pockets, muttering about a magic circle.
“Such a magnificent beauty, is it not?” Cang asks, gesturing at the castle itself. The foyer is richly appointed, full of carved wood with decorative filigree.
“Sure,” Shyan says. “Fail to see how it’s yours, though.”
The purple fangs in Cang’s mouth flash. “It has always been mine, dear, since the sun rose early on the Ekujek Empire.”
“Very old,” says Abia.
Cang glides toward her, is in her personal space before she reacts. “Right, right.” He peers up at her malevolently. “The stooge of the witch.”