Ren's blood turned to ice. She opened her mouth to speak, to spin a web of lies about sleepwalking or a sudden craving for pickled eggs, but Syris raised his hand.
"Do not," he said softly.
He reached into the folds of his sheer sash and pulled out a small, rectangular object. He held it up to the dim light of the fire. It was silver, scratched, and covered in dried, black mud.
It was her Survival Lighter.
Ren's breath hitched. 'I dropped it. When I lit the fire.'
"Viper brought this to me," Syris said, turning the object over in his long, pale fingers. "He does not know what it is. He knows only that it creates fire."
He looked at her, and the look in his eyes wasn't the white-hot rage of a king. It was far worse. It was the crushing weight of betrayal.
"He followed a trail of wet mud from the stairs to the vault," Syris continued, his voice devoid of its usual arrogant lilt. "He found the door open. He found the barrel of firewater smashed. And he found..."
