Page 8 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

“ Mesdames et messieurs ,” President Auriol began, his voice warm and steady. “Tonight, we gather not only to dine in the company of esteemed friends but to celebrate the enduring spirit of unity shared between our peoples.”

He paused, sweeping the crowd with a gaze filled with genuine warmth, his champagne flute still held aloft, catching the glint of the chandelier’s light.

Turning toward the Swiss President, he continued, “I remember, years ago, Max and I found ourselves arguing over who had the more beautiful mountain ranges. I told him the Alps were magnificent, but the Pyrenees had soul. He accused me of being romantically French. I accused him of being diplomatically neutral.”

The room laughed, delighted.

“Ah, but isn’t that the beauty of friendship?

” he continued. “That two nations, two peoples, two histories can come together—not despite our differences, rather because of them. Max, your wit has sharpened me more than any whetstone. And your kindness . . . has been the compass by which I’ve often found my own moral north. ”

Petitpierre gave a slight, bashful incline of his head.

President Auriol went on, his voice rising in tempo like a conductor bringing strings to crescendo.

“Let us toast not only to our own friendship but to the countless quiet acts of benevolence that shape our world every day. To those who labor in shadows so peace may shine in daylight. To every soul who serves with humility, with conviction, and with courage.”

He raised his glass higher and boomed the cherished French phrase, “ Liberté, égalité, fraternité! ”

Applause rang out—not polite, not perfunctory, but honest and full, a room of impassive dignitaries, for one brief moment, moved by one man’s words.

A thunderclap.

The sound didn’t register at first.

It was too sharp, too sudden, like a car backfiring from the lot beyond the palace walls. For all we knew, it was part of some elaborate production, timed to underscore the President’s remarks.

President Petitpierre’s head jerked backward as a bloom of red mist exploded across his wife’s shoulder and bodice. His body crumpled with a sickening grace, folding like a marionette whose strings had been sliced.

Madame Auriol screamed.

Her hands rose instinctively to shield herself, her face a portrait of horror.

President Auriol staggered back as his mind struggled to process the scene playing out only an arm’s length away. His glass dropped and shattered, champagne spreading across the white linen like spilled treasure.

Everything slowed.

My breath hitched.

A server dropped a tray with a muted clang.

Someone inhaled sharply beside me, but it sounded like it came from miles away.

Madame Petitpierre let out a strangled cry and reached for her husband as he collapsed. One white-gloved hand pressed against his chest in futility, coming away soaked in red.

Time stopped.

And then—

Chaos.

Screams erupted in waves.

Dozens of guests scrambled, diving beneath tables.

Guards poured in from hidden doorways, shouting in staccato French.

Silverware clattered.

A chair toppled beside me .

A woman screamed. Another sobbed.

Someone shouted for a doctor.

Will yanked me down beside him, shielding me with his body, and shouted, “Get down!”