Blackish-grey clouds tore across the sky, heavy with the promise of a violent storm, the kind that frequently battered their islands and served as a stern warning to anyone with a ship not to tempt the tides. A streak of lightning danced through the darkness, and exactly six heartbeats later, the thunder arrived, rattling the teeth in Haldon's jaw like the distant, rhythmic drums of a coming battle.
Haldon could smell the treachery before he even spotted the boots of the conspirators. And how could he not? The entire affair reeked of Barbut.
A fierce, hot anger flared in his chest at the mere thought of the man. Whenever the soup tasted foul in the Confederation, you could bet your little finger that Barbut's hand had been stirring the pot.
