An hour later, the gang’s warming themselves by the fire at the same dingy tavern where they’d first seen the musicians perform. Their coin goes a long way in this place, and stacked before them on the rude wooden tables are a dozen empty tankards and stacked plates, each with its attendant greasy streak or blob of hardening sauce. They sing and caper about the little tavern, buying cheap drinks for lucky bystanders.
Abia makes merry with the rest, but inside, she does not feel the heat of the hearth. In fact, she’s quite cold. She thinks back to the dragon perched upon its throne and right away she’s flush with heat.
Logan Bright — Works 