Benny was stirring the stew in the pot, while Ronan picked up a silver flask and took a sip. The liquor, fiery as flames, flowed down his throat like a scalding thread sliding into his stomach.
For most people, such a fierce drink would likely cause them to cough violently, but Ronan had no reaction, drinking it slowly as if it were water, all while intently examining the lines in his palm.
It was as if there was something intriguing and addictive in the lines of his palm, deeply capturing his attention.
"When did you pick up this habit?"
Benny closed the pot with a lid, adding, "The flavor will reach its peak in a little while."
"Don't you find the lines on our palms interesting?"
Ronan looked up, his gaze strangely intense as he spoke, "Every line has its own place, just like the patterns of runes."
