Shyan dusts herself off. The clear morning sky begins to fill with clouds, ugly black piles flooding in from the south. “More rain,” she mutters.
The gang moseys up the spiralling ramp to the top of the lighthouse, finds Ulxurix’s dental chair and the many bookshelves ringing the room. The magic circle thrums away, apparently unaffected by all that has come since its creation. Berstuun’s teeth glow a vibrant purple, the light leaking from his mouth. He whimpers, turns for the ramp. Fassn lays a firm hand on his shoulder, enough to comfort him, and prevent him from departing.
“Not so quickly, old man,” Cang says. “The lich owes us each a great deal. None more than yourself, perhaps, but as you are the lynchpin of this preposterous enterprise, we cannot let you take your leave just yet.” He gestures to the circle.
“Are you ready for this, Berstuun?” Shyan asks.
He meets her eyes, his own wet, red-rimmed. He sniffles, shakes his head.
Shyan nods once, sadly. “Still,” she says, and trails off.