“Perhaps so,” says Shyan enigmatically.
“Doubt you could afford it, though,” adds Cang. He shifts in his seat enough that the jewels clink in his pocket.
“Well, we do better than we look,” says the flutist. She’s gaunt, though not excessively so, and in her eyes is the fire of a devout ascetic. “Where’s it from?”
“A little grey princess,” Fassn says with a grin. “Cang here took it right from her neck!” The glowing sphere bobs over to Cang’s shoulder as though to illustrate which of them he is.
“I would thank you not to name me,” Cang snarls.
“Royalty, eh?” says the flutist, leaning back in her chair. After a long draught of ale, she says, “Maybe we can do business after all.”
Logan Bright — Works 