Page 4 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

I n the dim undercroft of a forgotten abbey, six robed figures encircled a narrow table of worn, gray stone.

Candles flickered in the still air, their flames warping ancient murals, armor, and swords—as well as statues of long-dead martyrs—on the walls and in the alcoves surrounding them.

Cloaks swayed with the weight of secrets as the figures stood in silence, heads bowed not in prayer, but in grim anticipation.

The eldest among them stepped forward into the candlelight. His face was mostly hidden by his cowl, but the thin line of his mouth was visible, curled in something between satisfaction and solemnity.

“ Regnum Graeciae cecidit ,” he intoned in Latin.

The Kingdom of Greece has fallen.

A ripple of murmurs stirred the group.

One of the older men chuckled under his breath.

“ Ave Rex . Dead in his own garden—how poetic,” said another gravelly voice. “He planted olive trees for peace, and now they shade his grave. ”

The men met here, always here, in the dark corners of forgotten sanctuaries.

The world above had changed, yes—but down here, nothing ever did.

Stone and ash, blood and scripture. They had chosen this abbey because it had been erased from most records, shuttered since long before the war.

No curious eyes wandered here: no parishioners, no police, no tourists.

They spoke in Latin—not out of tradition, but necessity.

Latin was the old tongue of power, the sacred barrier that obscured their purpose from prying ears. Even if overheard, few outside the Church or universities would understand a word. It was their veil, their armor, and in some ways, their confession.

The youngest among them, his voice taut with restrained excitement, added, “The queen still clutches at the reins, but she will not hold them long.”

Another asked, “What of the boy? A child does not rule. Is the regent in place?”

“Yes, the regent is ours.” The elder lifted his hand for silence. “Stefanos Stephanopoulos will act in accordance with our counsel. His debts are not forgotten. Nor are his beliefs.”

A figure near the scribe leaned forward. “And what of the Americans? They have long arms. Their fingers pry at Europe’s wounds. ”

“They sleep,” said the elder with certainty. “They still debate whether the king fell to age or nature. Their hesitation is our advantage.”

“They will wake,” another muttered. “They always do.”

“Then we must strike while they are still blinking into the sun.” The leader’s voice was calm but firm. “The next must fall quickly—before questions harden into convictions.”

The man to his right, a Germanic accent hiding behind his Latin words, growled, “Name the next. We deserve to know. Let us speak the name of the second, as we did the first.”

“You will know in time.” The leader turned toward him, not unkindly. “Names are not spoken lightly.”

“But you are certain he will attend the event?” asked another who clearly knew more about the next mission than his brother. “His schedule is not yet confirmed.”

“We are certain,” the leader replied. “The state visit proceeds. He will arrive, and he will not leave.”

The scribe scratched furiously.

“Then let the flame be lit again,” said the youngest. “Let the world feel what judgment tastes like.”

“We bring not judgment, but cleansing. Hitler was a fool, drunk on his own power and importance. Our calling is far greater, to bring righteousness first to Europe, then to all,” the leader intoned. “Let the world tremble at the voice of our Lord.”

The others echoed, more solemn now, their voices carrying beneath the stone archways: “ Et mundus trepidabit. ”

And the world will tremble.

The candles flared as if in answer.

The leader raised his voice once more, his tone reverent and resolute. “We have cut off the head of one adder. Soon, we shall strike again. Another serpent—another deceiver—will fall.”

He stepped around the table slowly, his hands brushing the ancient stone like a priest administering last rites.

The others tracked him with their eyes—one nervously fingering a rosary made of bone, another clicking his tongue three times with every turn of the leader’s footfalls, an old tick from childhood never fully banished.

“The world may never know what we do here,” he continued, “but the weight of our actions will be felt by generations. We do not merely correct the course of nations; we sanctify the path so others may awaken . . . to order, to unity, to purpose.”

One of the men, with breathless devotion, whispered, “You are the Voice that guides us.”

Another fell to his knees. “Where you walk, we follow. Ut sine dubio .”

Without doubt .

The leader placed his hand atop the kneeling man’s cowl and spoke in silent benediction.

“Prepare yourselves, brothers,” he said, voice low and resonant. “The days ahead will be swift, and history will not pause as the weak struggle to keep pace.”

The kneeling man lifted his head. “The vessel—has it been delivered?”

“It crossed the border at dawn. The courier is loyal and mute,” replied the leader. “It will be in place before the cathedral bells toll.”

“And the instrument?” asked the youngest. “Will it be the same as before?”

“No,” the leader said, his tone heavy. “The garden was symbolism; next will be spectacle. Let the people see and weep. Let them wonder what truths their leaders take to the grave.”

“The agent in Bern?” the youngest whispered. “He has not confirmed the travel route.”

“He will,” the leader assured them. “He has much to lose—but even more to gain.”

A pause lingered like fog before one asked, “Will the rite be spoken?”

The leader nodded. “At dawn. As it was before.”

“ Et in aeternum ,” the young one murmured.

“ Et in aeternum ,” the others echoed.

And into eternity.

The flicker of candlelight threw their shadows tall and trembling on the stone walls, a tableau of ancient vengeance reborn.

The leader extinguished them, leaving only shadows to carry their silence.

One by one, the robed men vanished up ancient stairs, their whispered Latin fading into stone and centuries past.