In her vision the dragon’s claws bite into the golden throne, rending the soft metal and leaving permanent scars. The dragon sneers at her from impossibly high, wreathed in dark smoke pouring from its slitted nostrils.
The sound of fingers snapping. “Abia? Abia?” It’s Shyan, trying to get Abia’s attention. She slowly opens her eyes and the driving tavern music floods back in. Rufus and Rivera are absent, and the minstrels present are giving it their all.
“You’re looking even more spaced out than usual,” Shyan says. “Everything all right?”