The innkeeper turned away and returned to the counter.
“It was wise of you to agree to this meeting,” Prince Sylvian said. A faint grin touched the corner of his mouth as he took the mug and drank slowly.
Elroth pressed his lips together. His sharp gaze searched the prince's face for a sign of reaction, yet found none. “My presence,” he said, his tone cold and controlled, “is no admission of your lies. Lies that serve only to reveal the corruption of the Mist Elves.”
Faint amusement flickered across Prince Sylvian's expression. “Spare me these words of feigned innocence. I do not accept this pretense of a clear conscience.”
He loosened the pouch at his belt and laid it deliberately upon the table. “I have proof. Proof of your betrayal—of everything that defines your people.”
Elroth's eyes dropped to the dark leather, his expression tightening at once. “Proof? What proof could you possibly hope to present?” The lines of his face sharpened; his breathing grew uneven.
Prince Sylvian leaned forward. “You cannot deceive me. Or why else would you have agreed to this meeting—with your enemy?”
Elroth answered with forced composure, yet the edge in his voice revealed the strain. “I wished to hear what you presumed to claim—with your own mouth. And to look into your eyes as I hold you to account for it.” His hand slid with deliberate purpose toward the hilt of his sword.
Prince Sylvian caught the movement at once.