Prince Sylvian's hand shot forward, seizing Elroth's fist and forcing it open with unexpected strength to snatch the ring in one smooth motion. “Do not attempt to deceive me,” he growled. His voice cut coldly through the room. “That is an art I master better than you.”
Elroth drew his hand back and clenched it again. “What is the point of this? Even if it were my ring, it proves nothing. Spare me these games. Say what you intend.”
A cold smile crossed Prince Sylvian's face. “Your fury. Your agitation. They speak loudly enough. None of it matches the nature of your people.” He drew the leather pouch closer, rested his fingertips on it, and tapped it twice—softly.
Elroth's patience broke. “Speak at last. What are you driving at?” His hand moved beneath the table, finding the sword's grip. “You should be thankful you still have your head.”
Prince Sylvian's left hand slid unhurried to his boot, drawing a dagger soundlessly to ease the tip within a hand's breadth of Elroth's side. “Restrain yourself,” he said. “You are in no position to issue demands.”
With his right hand, he opened the pouch. Deliberately, he drew something dark from within. At first, it was only a matted lock of hair. As he continued to draw, Elroth froze. His eyes widened in shock. A shrunken head now rested in Prince Sylvian's hand. Elroth froze; the color drained from his face.