His words sharpened.
He cast a cautious glance about the room to make certain no one was watching, then opened the pouch.
Carefully, he drew out a ring—slender, fashioned from a golden alloy, crowned with a deep violet stone set into a fine ornament shaped like an oak leaf. Elroth's gaze remained fixed upon the piece.
“What is this ring meant to prove?” The tension in his features eased, a fleeting release.
Prince Sylvian traced the violet stone with his forefinger. “It is your ring. The ring of the Warmaster of the Glorious Elves.” He let the words hang in the air between them.
Elroth replied instantly, speaking with calm conviction. “There are many rings in this world. This one is not mine.”
“Of course it is,” Sylvian answered, unperturbed. “And I am certain Queen Eledhwen will recognize it as well.”
Elroth inhaled sharply and fell silent, the air thick with unspoken words. Then he lifted the ring, turning it slowly between thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed as he examined the fine workmanship.
“You may be right. Now that I look more closely… it does resemble mine. I must have lost it at some point. Where did you find it?”
A short, harsh laugh broke from Prince Sylvian. “Lost?” he scoffed, leaning forward. “You did not lose it—of that I am certain.”
Elroth's expression hardened. Wordlessly, he closed his hand tightly around the ring. “What are you implying? That I am a liar?”