Page 26 of Skotos
The chaos of Athens melted into manicured hedges and the heavy hush of royal discipline. Fountains tinkled beneath flowering citrus trees.Uniformed aides scurried across flagstone paths, their eyes downcast and steps hurried.
It felt like entering an entirely different world.
But even here—especiallyhere—there was tension, the kind that lingered after a death in the family, the kind one couldn’t see but could feel in the cautious glances of the guards and the barely-concealed whispers of the staff.
Will’s eyes scanned every window, every balcony, while mine went to the rooflines, watching for long shadows that didn’t belong.
The car crept past the grand entrance—an elegant archway flanked byEvzonesin full regalia, their crisp whitefustanellasfluttering slightly in the breeze, tassels swaying with the discipline of centuries. Behind them, a pair of gilded doors towered above the marble steps. Dignitaries and ministers in tailored suits entered through those doors, as did the royals themselves.
We, however, were not dignitaries or ministers or royals.
Our driver didn’t even glance toward the formal entrance.
Instead, the Opel veered left, tires crunching on gravel as it rolled around to the rear of the palace.
The mood shifted again.
Gone was the polished marble and snapping flags—replaced by a stark, sun-bleached service entrance with flaking paint and rustingfixtures.
Two officers in crisp, yet plain military uniforms stood to either side of the door.
Standing at near-attention beside the guards was a man who looked carved from gristle and concrete. Tall, but not lanky—more like someone who’d been stretched upward without gaining grace. The man’s suit was pressed within an inch of its life, but no amount of tailoring could soften the Cro-Magnon slope of his forehead. His nose jutted from his face like the prow of a warship, and his eyes . . . well, they were unsettling. Pale and sharp, darting with calculation, they missed nothing. As we climbed out of the car, the Greek caveman looked me up and down, then examined Will, then our shoes, the crease of our pants, the sweat on our brows—absorbing it all like a human ledger.
“Agents Barker and Snead,” he said, voice staccato, as if vowels had deadlines. “Follow me.”
He turned before we could answer.
Will arched a brow. I shrugged.
Bureaucrats with superiority complexes came in all shapes. This one came in the form of a disapproving stork.
We entered a corridor that smelled faintly of lemon polish and floor wax. The lighting flickered inconsistently, and our footsteps echoed with an almost theatrical hollowness. The stork-like man never looked back, just barked over his shoulder.
“I am Christos Laskaris, Chief Administrator of Palace Logistics. You will go nowhere and see no one in this building without my approval. After recent events, my men are edgy, to say the least. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Will said lightly.
We wound through an impossible tangle of narrow corridors, stairwells, and doors. The inner workings of the palace were not designed for easy navigation, and I suspected half the staff still got lost once a week.
Finally, Laskaris halted before a narrow wooden door tucked beside what looked like a closet for storing towels and sheets. He produced a ring of keys, selected one with fastidious care, and opened it.
His office was . . . austere.
No, not austere.
It was an empty box with a desk.
There were no windows, no photos, no clutter, and only a single wooden chair on each side of the desk. On top of the desk sat a dull green lamp. One wall held the room’s only artwork, a framed emergency evacuation map.
The place looked more like the break room for an undertaker than an administrator’s office.
“This is where you will wait,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“For me to decide what you may know,” he said.
And with that, he stepped aside and shut the door behind him. Theclickof the locking bolt sliding into place was our first unwelcome surprise of the day.
