Page 6 of Skotos
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 ofancient 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.
4
Will
Aweek passed after Lyon. Jacques Delon—aka Martel—was behind bars. We rarely got to hear what happened after we passed on our intel, let alone witness the outcome, but this time, the French kept us in the loop.
I sat on the edge of the bed, report in hand, grinning like a schoolboy who’d just found a secret stash of sweets. “They actually got him, dragged him out of a wine cellar in Avignon. According to this report, there were no shots fired, barely even a shout.”
Across the room, Thomas looked up from his cufflinks and let out a quiet breath. “After all these years . . .”
“Right?”
He shook his head. “I wonder what the locals are saying. He hid for years, pretending to be one of them, allthis time.”
I turned to the mirror, tried to fix my bow tie for the fifth time, and gave up halfway through. “It’s nice knowing we had a hand in it.”
“A hand, a boot, and half a dossier of surveillance photos,” Thomas replied with a quiet chuckle.
