Page 1 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

T he sun hung low, gilding the rooftops with molten gold as the king stepped into his palace gardens. The day’s heat lingered in the marble beneath his feet, though the sea breeze had finally cooled. Its ever-present kiss teased his face and nose with a pleasant hint of salt.

King Paul inhaled deeply, drinking in the heady scents of orange blossoms and rosemary. For all the burdens that came with his crown, this garden remained his refuge.

He walked slowly, hands behind his back, savoring the quiet.

It wasn’t age that made him linger—though fifty loomed closer than he liked—but habit.

Years of naval discipline had trained him to move with measured purpose, weapons that had carried him through war and peace, coronation and crisis.

They carried him now past the olive trees his family had planted generations earlier, their silvered leaves shimmering in the dusk .

He paused beside one in particular. It was tall, gnarled, and strong—a bit like himself, if he was honest. A rite of passage for all monarchs of his line, he had planted it the day he became king. He reached out, letting his fingers trace its bark, rough and familiar, a reminder of steadier times.

The sound of small feet pounding across the gravel broke the garden’s stillness, and a boy burst into view, laughing and breathless.

“Papa!”

Crown Prince Constantine, ten years old and growing taller by the day, skidded to a halt in front of him. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed from play, and he held a wooden sword in one hand.

The king smiled, crouching slightly. “What have I said about attacking your father when he is unarmed?”

“I wasn’t attacking,” Constantine said, grinning. “I was charging.”

Before the king could reply, Queen Frederica appeared at the edge of the garden, elegant even in her haste.

“Constantine!” she called. “I told you to change before dinner.”

The boy turned sheepish, glancing back at his father.

Paul rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go with your mother. We will talk after dinner.”

“But—”

The king crouched again, this time not in jest. “Listen to me, my lion, a king must know when to act and when to wait. Go now, and we will play later. I promise.”

Constantine hesitated, then nodded and threw his arms around his father’s neck, squeezing tightly.

“I love you, Papa.”

The king hugged him back, holding on a beat longer than usual. “And I you. Always.”

As Constantine ran off, Frederica approached, her eyes softening as she brushed a stray curl from her husband’s temple.

“My dear, you are too indulgent with him,” she chided gently.

“And you are too lovely to argue with,” he said, rising to meet her gaze.

She smiled and rose onto her toes to kiss him—not a perfunctory kiss, but a lingering one that spoke of years of partnership and shared burdens.

“I will save you a slice of cake,” she whispered.

“Now, you have my interest.”

Frederica smiled as she touched his hand once more, then turned toward the hedge-lined path. Constantine jogged by his mother’s side. The queen turned back and met Paul’s gaze with a raised brow and a small, knowing smile.

“He adores you, you know,” she said .

“I know,” Paul replied. “He will make a better king than I could ever be.”

Frederica gave him a long look, then took Constantine’s hand and guided him through the winding gardens, returning the king to his blessed quiet.

Alone again, Paul sighed and continued his walk, wandering deeper into the garden, letting his fingers graze the velvety petals of lavender hedges that lined the path.

The soothing scent of the purple blooms calmed him as it always did.

Clusters of white oleander nodded in the breeze nearby.

They were dangerous if ingested, he reminded himself absently, but so elegant in form.

Past them, pink and crimson bougainvillea cascaded over a trellis, vibrant and wild, defying the discipline of the royal gardeners.

In a shaded alcove, tall spires of cypress trees stood sentinel, their slender forms etched against the dusky sky.

He stood for a while at the base of a marble plinth where a cluster of basil plants grew—holy basil, brought centuries ago from Mount Athos, now thrived at the foot of the ancient stone.

He inhaled again, letting the mingled scents of thyme, laurel, and citrus wash over him like a balm.

It was a garden of memory, of living history.

It was his sanctuary.

His fingers moved to the ring on his right hand, a simple golden piece etched with the cross of Saint George handed down through generations.

He turned it absentmindedly, a habit as natural as breathing, one he’d done for years without even realizing it.

The cool metal beneath his fingers grounded him.

Sometimes, in the midst of a heated council or sleepless night, the touch of that ring brought him back to center.

It was a relic of faith, yes, but also of identity, of lineage, and of duty.

And yet, even with his family just out of sight, his heart ached.

There were decisions—so many decisions—that haunted him still.

Chief among them: leaving the country during the occupation.

He had followed his government into exile as protocol demanded, but had it truly been the right choice?

He had told himself Greece needed a free king speaking on her behalf; but sometimes, in quiet moments like this, he wondered if his absence had merely widened the cracks in Greece’s fragile society.

Had it emboldened the extremists and weakened the monarchy’s legitimacy in the eyes of his people?

Could he have done more by staying?

Could his presence have spared them the worst of the civil war that ended only a few years earlier ?

His thoughts turned toward the future, heavy as stone.

Greece now looked Westward.

American money had rebuilt their roads and wired their telephones, but American hands also attempted to steer their politics. The Soviets, never ones to leave any nation to its own devices, watched from the north and east, whispering promises of equality while wielding oppression with steel.

Paul had chosen his path, one of alignment with the West, but the price of that choice would not be paid in dollars or rubles. Rather, it would be paid in sovereignty—and it would be Constantine, not Paul, who might one day have to choose whether to resist or surrender when the next storm came.

A purple blossom returned his thoughts to Frederica.

His wife was still so beautiful after all these years.

Her presence was steady and luminous, the keystone in the arch of their family.

She was fire and grace, sharp-tongued when needed but softer than anyone might guess behind closed doors.

Her love never wavered, even through the turmoil of war and exile.

Paul treasured her with a quiet reverence he never quite managed to put into words.

And then there were their children.

Sophie and Irene were so different from one another. Sophie was headstrong and curious, forever pushing the boundaries of court decorum; and little Irene, wide-eyed and thoughtful, often clung to Frederica’s skirts.

They were his heart, those girls.

And Constantine, brave, bright-eyed Constantine.

He was every inch a boy now, sword in one hand and an avalanche of questions tumbling from his lips. Paul watched him play in his mind’s eye, feeling both pride and fear: pride in the boy he was becoming, fear of the world he might inherit.

Paul took a right fork in the garden’s path.

The cicadas were in full chorus as he passed the reflecting pool near the back wall of the palace, its water still and glowing with the final embers of day. The Acropolis loomed beyond, a silent sentinel watching over the city.

He sat on a stone bench beside the pool. It was cool and worn smooth by years of royal arses. He leaned back and let his eyes close.

The garden hummed around him.

He flinched as a distant engine backfired, reminding him all too well of the past decade and its interminable conflicts. The acrid taste of smoke and bile filled his mouth as crimson banners sewn with hateful symbols fluttered in his mind.

So much had changed.

Greece had been torn by war, first at the hand of the Italians, then the Germans, then their own people.

The scars still ran deep, but there was peace now—or the semblance of it.

The Americans had helped, generous with one hand, calculating with the other.

He preferred them to the Soviets, if only because their motives were less veiled.

Finally calmed from memory’s disquiet, his thoughts wandered to his approaching birthday.

Fifty.

He would be fifty.

It was a round number heavy with expectation.

And yet, for once, he found himself anticipating it—not the speeches or ceremonies, but the private moments.

There would be an intimate dinner with Frederica filled with laughter and wine.

For one glorious night, there would be no ministers or messengers or telegrams. For one miraculous night, he would simply be a man celebrating the turning of a year without the crown or its onerous weight.

He shifted slightly on the bench, smiling and scratching at his stubble and realizing, for the first time that day, that he’d forgotten to shave—and no one had said a word.

He made a mental note to chat with his castellan about his personal staff growing slack.

Frederica would laugh and tell him to sharpen his own mind before chiding others. Still . . .

Something shifted suddenly.

His collar grew itchy and tight .

Sweat beaded across his brow and at the base of his neck.

His hands, relaxed moments ago, were now damp.

Paul swallowed. His mouth was parched, his tongue dry and thick.

Stars began appearing in their ocean of blue danced and wavered where they were normally still.

The Acropolis blurred, then doubled.

The king blinked, then rubbed his eyes.

Nothing cleared.

Panic touched the edge of his thoughts.

He tried to call out—to the guards or anyone nearby—but his throat was too dry. The sound barely rose above a whisper.

He lurched to his feet to return to the palace, but his knees gave way, and he dropped to the gravel path, his palms scraping stone.

Reaching blindly toward the flowerbed beside him, his fingers found a bloom, soft petals, warm from the sun. He gripped it, desperate to feel something real.

The scent—earthy and floral—filled his lungs.

And then the world lurched.

And darkness pressed in.