The blue-green light caught the signet ring as Soren placed it on Sylas's desk, the metal making a soft click against polished wood. Blood had dried in the tiny crevices of House Trelaine's crest, a falcon clutching a branch of some forgotten tree.
Sylas barely glanced at it, those unsettling green eyes flicking from the ring to Soren's face. "Done," he said. No praise. No lecture. Just acknowledgment of a task completed.
Soren stood straight, hands relaxed at his sides. His body ached from the journey back through the Wastes, but he kept his breathing even, his expression neutral.
Dirt and sweat clung to him like a second skin, yet he made no move to brush it away. Such discomfort had become too familiar to warrant attention.
Mira stood in the corner, arms folded across her chest, her tattooed face half-hidden in shadow. She had said nothing since their return, offering neither criticism nor approval of his work.
