When weak yellow sunlight begins edging its way through grimy tavern windows, Shyan stirs. She’d fallen asleep at the table, still gripping a half-full tankard. Fassn’s asleep too, head back and mouth wide open, snoring.
Cang continues to count his stash, making careful little piles for future expenses and extravagances. Abia’s still focused, with unyielding pacificity, at some unseen point beyond the tavern.
When the light tickles her nose, Shyan shoots up. “Master Davit!?” she shouts, her eyes wild. The barman shoots her a startled look from across the room where he’s lifting chairs onto tables. “All right now, you slept for free, off you lot go, y’hear?”