Mist's Edge (The Broken Lands #2) - T.A. White Page 0,66

speech. He rubbed his chin in thought. A half-formed plan had been forming after Shea’s display in ability—one that involved storming the Highlands to demand pathfinders for his army or finding a way to replicate their training in his own men. From what Witt had shared, that plan might not hold enough positive returns for such a risky undertaking.

That was to say nothing of the anger Shea would feel if he invaded her homeland. It was something he’d avoided until now, an action so at odds with his personality that some of his generals had questioned him. Among them was Braden, who upon hearing that Fallon had no immediate plans to invade the Highlands, had expressed extreme reserve about Fallon’s relationship with Shea.

There were even whisperings of bewitchery and sorcery. As if Fallon was susceptible to such things. Those were ridiculous ideas designed to undermine Fallon and cast doubt upon Shea.

Fallon knew that he still had detractors among the Trateri. He could name three people off the top of his head who were actively plotting for his downfall so they could take over in his stead. It was one of the reasons he was so adamant that Shea have guards with her at all times. He knew she didn’t realize the danger, being utterly uninterested in Trateri politics, or any politics he’d guess.

The advent of this mist would give them further fuel for their fire.

He’d rotated Braden back into the fold to consolidate his power base. With Darius and Braden at his side—his two most powerful generals, he had a chance at withstanding some of the storms that were gathering.

“Is there anything else you can share?” Fallon asked.

Witt shook his head. “Shea would be your best resource. She was one of them. If anyone would understand their reasoning behind the note, she would.”

That was what Fallon feared.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTER FALLON left, Shea and Daere stared at each other for a long moment before the other woman excused herself.

Alone again, Shea laid down on the bed, her arms thrown over her head and feet on the ground as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling. It swayed gently in a stray breeze.

In every scenario she’d considered, each move she’d anticipated, she’d never expected the higher-ups to leave that note—to summon her home, for all intents and purposes. To bring her friends of all things. It was so outside the realm of possibilities that she was having a hard time believing it.

She sat up on her elbows. Maybe the note hadn’t come from Wayfarer’s Keep. Maybe it was a ruse. One aimed at impacting her relationship with Fallon. Or maybe the note writer had intended some other outcome Shea just couldn’t anticipate right now.

One thing was for sure—Shea didn’t trust that note and she had no intention of leading the Trateri on a suicide mission into the Highlands where the pathfinders and their guild held the advantage.

Shea spent over an hour staring up at the canvas ceiling, waiting for Fallon to come back. He never did, and she ended up falling into a fitful sleep.

It was late in the night when Fallon’s warm weight slipped into bed beside her. His arms slid under her, shifting, and arranging her until she was sprawled on his chest. Her face automatically burrowed into his shoulder in a move that had become familiar over the months they’d been together.

Her fingers toyed with the bare skin of his chest, tugging lightly on his chest hair before soothing the sting. His hand settled over hers.

“Did you find the person responsible?” She held her breath, almost dreading the answer.

“No.”

She exhaled.

It took a moment for her to realize how stiff his body was under hers, like a board instead of the warm heat she was accustomed to.

She lifted her head to look at him in the dark. He was glaring up at the canvas.

“What is it?”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His voice was a whiplash of ice in the night.

She drew back a little to get a better look at him. His arms tightened around her in warning. She didn’t appreciate him shutting her out nor did she appreciate the threat in his tone.

“Why not talk about it now?”

“Tomorrow, Shea.”

Her jaw dropped at the autocratic command. He did not just say that. That wasn’t how this worked. They were partners and partners shared things.

She pushed out of his arms and sat up, staring down at him. Her silence filled with angry words that she couldn’t get out—her jaw locked tight. It was