Every morning, the estate awoke wrapped in a deceptive calm. Birds sang among the trees, the fountains whispered their crystal melodies, and the steady crunch of boots echoed as the guards walked the gravel paths. To an outsider, it might have looked like a paradise for a child: a sanctuary where a five-year-old could run freely without fear. But Stefan knew better. That calm was fragile, a thin veil stretched over tensions sharp enough to tear through everything in a heartbeat.
For weeks, the family's routine had grown more rigid. More closed-door meetings. More visits from suited men who didn't belong to either the De Angelis or Müller inner circle. Jean Morel appeared more often than ever, always carrying folders under his arm, his face betraying a seriousness that no polite smile could soften. Fabio tried to mask his exhaustion, but the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and prolonged debates. Stefan didn't yet grasp every detail, but instinct whispered that something was shifting—something large enough to pull them all into its current.
Despite the growing unease, Stefan clung to his daily discipline. Each morning, before the rest of the house stirred, he rose quietly, dressed without a sound, and began his exercises. Push-ups, squats, stretches—struggles at first for his small frame, but repetition was reshaping his body. Slowly, his muscles firmed, his endurance grew, and with each movement his mind steadied. It wasn't just physical training; it was a reminder that he needed to stay prepared.
Afterward, he devoted stolen moments to his hidden studies. He filled pages with crude maps, copied passages from history books, and scrawled notes in a childish hand that, to anyone else, would have looked like nonsense. But for him, each word was a brick in a foundation he was laying in silence. He wrote about potential alliances, about countries' weaknesses, about mistakes Europe could not afford to repeat. Absurd, perhaps, for a boy of five—but Stefan felt no choice. If fate had given him another chance, then he had to use it, no matter how small the steps seemed.
Family meals had become battlegrounds disguised as conversations. The grandparents debated politics with elegance, their smiles and toasts unable to blunt the sharp edges beneath their words. Carmen spoke eagerly of business expansion across Spain, while Anna pressed the importance of restraint. Heinrich, ever pragmatic, often reminded them that "stability is more fragile than anyone admits," while Vittorio countered that stability without ambition was nothing more than a mirage.
Stefan listened silently, his spoon moving through soup while his mind dissected every word. His childish gaze served as camouflage; no one suspected how intently he absorbed the exchanges. He understood these weren't simple disagreements—they were fragments of a much larger board, where the De Angelis name was being positioned for something greater, something riskier.
At night, when the echoes of those conversations still lingered, Stefan would stand by his window. Beyond the glass, guards swept the gardens with beams of light that sliced through the hedges like knives. He would watch them march, their boots pounding with mechanical precision, and wonder: what threats waited beyond those walls? What dangers justified such constant vigilance? Each time he closed his eyes, the answer felt the same—the world was waiting, and it wouldn't wait peacefully.
Patterns began to emerge. Jean Morel didn't just deliver documents; he carried whispers of Europe's unrest. Rumors of student movements. Murmurs of discontent in countries far from Madrid. Arguments in Brussels that sounded trivial yet could sway the continent's course. Stefan couldn't follow every mechanism of politics, but he understood chaos. He knew from experience that the smallest sparks could ignite wildfires.
One afternoon, while pretending to play with wooden blocks in his father's study, Stefan heard a phrase that froze him in place.
"Fear," Morel said, his voice sharp as a blade, "is the most effective tool."
Silence stretched before Fabio replied, his tone low and measured.
"Yes. But it's also a weapon that cuts back if used too often."
Stefan's hands stilled, but his mind burned. He had seen this truth in another life—how fear could crush entire nations, and how that same fear could breed resistance no force could quench. Balance was delicate, and misuse could turn order into chaos overnight.
Outside of adult circles, Stefan built his own experiments. With the children of the estate staff, he organized games that bore little resemblance to childhood play. He had them gather branches to build fortresses, split into factions for mock battles, and obey strict rules he declared. Some grew bored quickly, but others followed with surprising devotion, drawn to the authority he exuded without effort.
In those moments, Stefan tested more than strategy—he tested leadership. He watched how others reacted under pressure, how they responded to clear commands, how they rallied around the promise of victory, even if imaginary. He saw a truth hidden in plain sight: most people longed for someone to give direction. In games or in life, the instinct was the same.
Each night, as he replayed these lessons, he recognized their value. Power wasn't built on ideas alone; it was built on people. On trust. On the ability to inspire loyalty—or fear—when it mattered. And Stefan knew he would need both.
One golden Friday evening, as the sun painted the treetops in amber, Stefan overheard his father speaking with a weight in his voice he couldn't quite mask. Fabio had to travel to Brussels with Morel, summoned for a Commission meeting. The trip was supposed to be brief, but his mother's worried face betrayed otherwise.
That night, the absence in the house was tangible. Stefan lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, sensing a void where his father's presence should have been. For the first time, he realized how exposed they were without Fabio anchoring the family. The man who tried to shield them was walking into a storm, and Stefan hated the thought of being powerless. From his bed, he vowed: he would not let the world move its pieces without him—not forever, not when he could act.
At dawn, as sunlight pierced through the curtains, Stefan rose with new determination. Listening and observing were no longer enough. If he wanted to change the future, he needed to start planting seeds now—small ones, invisible to others, but seeds that would grow when the time came.
That weekend, Stefan immersed himself in thought. His notebook filled with arrows, symbols, half-sentences that might look like childish doodles but, in his mind, mapped entire strategies. "Unlikely alliances." "Friends who are really enemies." "Union through fear… or through hope."
On Sunday, walking in the garden with Anna, words slipped from his lips without warning.
"Grandmother… do you think people always need fear to obey?"
Anna stopped, surprised, then smiled tenderly, stroking his cheek.
"No, my dear. People obey because they trust, because they love, because they hope for something better. Fear works, yes… but it never lasts."
Stefan fell silent, but inside, a fire caught. In his past life, he had seen fear enslave and destroy, but never build anything lasting. And now, behind the shield of his childhood innocence, he began to glimpse the idea that would define his path: true power could never rest on fear alone. It had to rest on faith.