“Just bust down the door, storm in, ‘Hey, give us your jewels or your life’?” Shyan asks from her place on the floor. Though she’s still, the clarity of her vision astounds her. Her senses each seem sharpened somehow, with none of the poison’s fog coursing through her.
“Perhaps we shall consider that our second string approach,” Cang says. “I, for one, have no wish to bloody my knuckles, nor to fill my skin with bone darts. Though,” he says, gingerly picking up one of the discarded darts, “I would be interested to learn this poison’s construction, perhaps even turn it to our own noble purposes.”
“Noble, right,” Shyan replies.
“Alas, I propose something more subtle. The fall of night, an unlatched window, a shadow loading jewels into its pockets.”
Shyan sits up. Her stomach grumbles and her skin itches. “You know what?” she asks. “I think you’re right.”
Logan Bright — Works 