Shyan tries the lighthouse doors. Stuck fast, though she’s fairly certain nobody’s been through since they were captured. When had that been, the night before, two? Time got slippery in their cell underground. She bangs hard on the door, calls out, “Anyone in there, we need the magic circle at the top. Everything else inside is yours.”
Cang looks alarmed, but Shyan gives him a gesture to stay quiet, that she doesn’t really mean it. Still, no sound comes from within.
With her boot just under the handle, Shyan gives the door a swift kick. It blows in on its hinges, swinging into the gloom. Even though the sun is rising, its rays do little to penetrate the lighthouse cylinder. Even so, there is a single figure huddled at the centre around a weak, sputtering fire.
The gang strides in before stopping short. The figure is Horton Belwether, town blacksmith and lackey to the lich. He gapes and for a moment seems incapable of speech. “You can’t come in here,” he finally says. He glances quickly around, then lowers his voice to a theatrical whisper. “‘Cause of the lich!”