“I suppose there are certain aesthetic delights in the throne room of the dragon that I may be pleased to lay my fingers upon,” says Cang, with an almost worshipful glint in his eye.
The glowing sphere turns about his head, unheeded.
“Dragons pay well,” says Abia. “If you can get them to pay.”
“See, that’s the trouble. Getting them to pay. Exactly,” says Shyan, counting out coins on the table, hunched over to conceal their metallic glint from other patrons.
“I don’t wanna work for a dragon,” says Fassn, his eyes half-lidded with drink.
“Nor I,” says Cang. “But to steal from one — well, that is something else entirely, no?”
Logan Bright — Works 