“Seems like he knows who she is,” Shyan says, standing. Abia remains squatting next to him, gently holding his hand, while the rest observe him like doctors. He continues muttering, “Ulxurix, Ulxurix, Ulxurix,” but the time between words slows, stretches gently, and soon his rail-thin arms and legs are twitching with drowsiness and his eyes flutter shut.
“You killed him,” Fassn says.
The pallid torchlight certainly helps the illusion. His skin looks sallow, translucent. The wrinkles in his skin are deep and black.
“I would imagine that everyone in town knows the name of Ulxurix,” says Cang. “She’s a tattooed witch who lives in a lighthouse.”
“Tough to miss,” Fassn adds.
“Could be,” Shyan says. “How long have you been here, grandfather?” she asks. She nudges him.
He snores, and snorts, and rolls slightly. The parched lips of his mouth fall open to reveal a gentle purple glow.