The gang moves sullenly through the city’s morning streets. Cang’s murmuring salaciously to himself, and seems unaware the others can hear him. “Yes, riches and loot for the taking, most interesting.”
“This is for Abia, though, right?” Shyan asks, eyebrow cocked like she knows that’s not true.
“But of course, but of course,” Cang says, smiling his most transparent grin. “Our compatriot Abianarin, who has suffered so greatly at the claws of the dragon. The very rich dragon,” he adds, as though he can’t help himself. For the rest of the walk, Cang’s able to tamp down his murmuring, but he can’t seem to stop dry-washing his own eager hands.