"A curse?" Cherion repeated, his voice dropping into a hush that was barely louder than the soft, rhythmic crackle of the small iron stove in the corner.
He leaned across the table, his fingers instinctively tightening around the cool stem of his glass. His eyes locked onto Derrick's face. "Derrick, please. Look at me and tell me everything you know. Where did you even hear something so specific? Who said it?"
Derrick hesitated. His knuckles turned white as he adjusted his linen napkin with fidgety, nervous fingers, his gaze darting cautiously toward the thick oak door of the private dining room. He leaned in closer until his shadow overlapped Cherion's on the polished wood.
