It was noon in Paris, but the sky was still gloomy as if to representing the feeling of top officials.
The courtyard of the École Militaire had been cleared and swept clean.
French tricolor flags hung from wrought iron balconies, and a small brass band stood silently near the edge of the square, uniforms stiff and polished..
Around the perimeter, rows of soldiers from various regiments stood at rigid attention, their boots aligned like a wall of iron.
The ceremony wasn't large not by Versailles standards but it had weight.
Representatives from the Ministry were present, as were several high-ranking officers.
Their expressions were carefully composed, neutral, watching.
Étienne Moreau stood still as stone in the center of the ceremony line.
His polished boots had soaked through already.
His uniform collar pinched.
But none of that mattered.
Because he could feel it.
This wasn't a celebration.
This was the end game.
