Abia returns to the cavern. First in, last out is Cang, counting up his gems of rock and stone, a look of ebullience pasted across his face, such that Abia had never seen on him before. She takes a cautious step toward him, and he flinches. He’s not looking straight at her — how could he, with all this gold about? — but still, he’s twitchy.
Abia feels a wave of fatigue from activating the freezing in her fingers, but pushes past it. Again, frost creeps down her digits. She carefully approaches Cang, but when her fingers near his flesh, he bats her arm away with an instinctive flick of his wrist. He’s not alarmed, but he’s defensive.
“Please, Cang,” Abia says. “I try to help you.”
Cang, though, continues as though he cannot hear, his pockets bulging with ill-gotten, valueless loot.
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