The throne at the room’s far wall is massive, built of fused gold, threaded with silver, studded with diamonds, rubies, sapphires. Fassn’s eyes nearly bug out of his skull as he takes in the display of wealth, while even Cang’s mouth drops involuntarily open. Heavy black shadows press in from all corners, kept flickeringly at bay by guttering torches in ornate sconces. The heat in the chamber is enough that sweat beads at the gang’s brows as they take in the oppressive throne.
The throne itself, though, is unoccupied.
“Hey we had a deal,” Shyan calls out, though no one is apparently around to here. “Mr. Dragon? We’ve got gold, stolen from royalty! Your musicians said you wanted to buy it.”
A wave of brutal heat suddenly washes over the gang, kicking up a hot wind that throws them each into disarray. Something enormous moves in the shadows.
Logan Bright — Works 