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Summary
"It brings me no joy to have to resort to such measures," Lord de Vere says. The wine has stained his mouth blood-red. He dabs at it with a napkin. "But the older my nephew grows, the harder it becomes to ignore his… affliction."
Damen hums in vague agreement. "You mentioned a curse in your letter."
The missive arrived not a fortnight ago at the inn he was staying at. The messenger held it in his hands with something not unlike reverence and seemed unwilling to part with the parchment as Damen went to take it from him. The elder de Vere, it would appear, is well-liked in these parts.
The same cannot be said for his nephew.
"I'm sure you're aware of the Curse of the Black Sun," Lord de Vere says, quietly. His eyes wander the room as though he's making sure no one is around to hear. "My nephew was born on that unfortunate night, twenty years past."