“Yes,” Abia says quietly, her voice sliding like silk under the din of the tavern musicians. The rest of the gang leans in to hear her. “Feeling wistful,” she continues, looking away, as though through the tavern walls to the dragon’s compound.
“But you left,” Shyan says.
“Yes. I chose to go.” The nearly invisible smile on Abia’s lips persists.
Fassn slams his empty tankard on the table and belches. “Another! If we’re going back to that gold throne room I’m gonna be damn sure I’m drunk first.”
Cang shoots him a look of horrified surprise that curdles into grim acceptance.
Logan Bright — Works 