"Why do you have this?"
The question echoed through the empty corridor. They stood between tall marble pillars, no walls to block the sunlight that spilled across Ren's silver hair, turning it gold. His red eyes glimmered like bleeding rubies—wounded, cornered.
The servant froze. The chain swayed slightly in Zayden's hand, catching the light like a cruel reminder.
He should lie. Say he found it. Say Eiran dropped it. Say anything. But the words stuck in his throat, like a fish bone he could neither swallow nor spit out.
Zayden's eyes softened, the edge of authority fading into something quieter.
"Ren," he said—gentle, almost hesitant, as he took a step closer.
That single word unguarded him, heavier than any accusation.
He could have run, even now. He had the money, the strength, the means. If Zayden grew angry, he could take Eiran and vanish before dawn. But for once, he didn't want to run.
His fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve.
"It's… not stolen."
