The estate's morning veil lifted slowly, as dawn brushed the gardens with pale gold. Stefan awoke not to the soft chirping of birds or the smell of breakfast, but with a flutter in his chest — a quiet anticipation that stirred in his stomach. He dressed quickly in clothes laid out by Anna: simple, respectable, not too showy. She inspected him with a precise nod, straightening his collar with the same care she would have given a soldier preparing for inspection.
Today was no ordinary day. Today he would leave the walls he had known since he had "woken up" in this life. Today he would set foot beyond La Moraleja, into the beating heart of Madrid. The thought filled him with both exhilaration and unease.
Breakfast was a quiet affair, though the tension threaded beneath the surface. Anna's voice carried her usual cool resolve:
"We go to central Madrid this morning."
The words dropped with the weight of a decree. She looked at Stefan, and for the briefest moment, her eyes softened. He nodded, hiding his excitement under the mask of calm expected of him.
The journey would be conducted under strict protocol: two armored cars, motorcycles clearing a path through traffic, and guards stationed at precise intervals. To most, it might seem excessive. To Stefan, it felt like stepping onto a stage prepared for him — a play in which his role had already been written.
The convoy swept onto the Gran Vía, and Madrid greeted them in full force. The city roared with life. Crowds pressed against storefronts, their chatter mingling with the honking of horns and the rumble of buses. Street vendors shouted over the din, the sweet smell of roasted chestnuts wafting through the air. Billboards glared from above — colors, slogans, promises.
Stefan pressed his small hand against the cool glass of the window, eyes wide. He had drawn maps before, memorized names of capitals and rivers, but this — this was Europe alive. Flawed, restless, urgent. He saw children tugging at their mothers' coats, businessmen rushing with briefcases, elderly couples shuffling with dignity. The contrast fascinated him: wealth and want, ambition and fatigue, all sharing the same narrow streets.
Every face seemed to carry a story he longed to uncover. His pulse quickened. The world was larger, harsher, and far more beautiful than any classroom or walled estate could teach him.
Their destination rose before them in the Salamanca district: a stately bookstore with tall windows framed in dark wood, golden letters glinting above the door. Guards moved first, their presence commanding the space as they scanned entrances and side streets. Only when the perimeter was declared secure did Carmen guide Stefan inside, her pride radiating.
Anna remained near the doorway, sharp-eyed and vigilant, while Stefan wandered between shelves as though entering a cathedral.
Rows of history books, atlases, and novels stretched around him. He touched the spines with reverence, fingertips trailing across centuries of human thought bound in leather and paper. His breath slowed, as though he feared to disturb the silence.
Then his eyes landed on a display of maps — old, worn, their covers faded but dignified. He lifted one heavy volume, its title etched in bold: A Divided Europe.
The pages exhaled the scent of old ink and dust. Borders etched and re-etched, treaties inked and broken, nations rising and dissolving. Stefan traced a trembling finger across the lines, as though confirming the fractures he already carried in his memory. Every mark whispered of a continent split by fear, greed, and ambition.
His pulse raced. This was no children's book. This was evidence.
"Too serious for your age, don't you think?" Anna's voice broke the silence. She had approached silently, her tone laced with a rare hint of humor.
Stefan looked up and offered a polite smile, feigning innocence. "I like maps."
Anna chuckled, shaking her head. To her, it was a boy's harmless curiosity. She could not know that beneath his simple answer lay the roots of a vision.
Outside, as the entourage prepared to depart, Stefan's sharp gaze caught something unusual. A man lingered near the bookstore's entrance. His clothes were plain, his posture casual, but his eyes betrayed him. They were fixed on Stefan with a focus too deliberate to ignore.
The guards noticed as well, intercepting swiftly. The man raised his hands, a brief nod of apology crossing his features, before slipping back into the crowd. He disappeared with practiced ease, like a shadow merging with the city's flow.
Stefan felt the chill crawl up his spine. That gaze had not been curiosity. It was recognition — or fear.
He said nothing, but in his mind, the man's image burned like an omen. Someone had seen him, truly seen him, beyond the surface of childhood.
Back at the car, Carmen fussed with the books Stefan carried, her pride unhidden. "So studious," she said warmly. Anna smiled faintly, though her eyes remained distant, calculating.
Later that evening, as Fabio returned from Brussels, Stefan overheard fragments of conversation between his father and Jean:
"Commission pressures…""German opposition hardening…""…delays in trade deals…"
The words drifted through corridors like smoke. To others, they might have been political jargon, too abstract to matter. But to Stefan, they were pieces of a puzzle he was already assembling in secret.
That night, by candlelight, Stefan opened his notebook. The flickering flame cast long shadows across the room as he dipped his pen and wrote three maxims, each line sharp, deliberate:
Fear can subdue — but it cannot build.A family's strength lies not in wealth, but in trust.Visibility demands vigilance.
He stared at the words, letting them settle into the page, into him. Each was drawn from the day's experience: the guarded glances of strangers, the warmth of Carmen's pride, the cold precision of Anna's vigilance.
For Stefan, they were not lessons. They were vows.
Lying in bed, he closed his eyes and replayed every moment: the hum of engines on the Gran Vía, the weight of the atlas in his hands, the guards shifting subtly at the presence of the unknown man.
Madrid was not only his city; it was a chessboard. Every player moved with intention, and now he had seen their faces.
As the candle burned low, Stefan whispered to himself a thought that filled the silence like a promise:
No wall, no protocol, no hidden threat will blind me to what must be done. Because once the cracks in the wall appear, there is no going back.
And with that, he surrendered to sleep, the notebook heavy with the first true maxims of his future manifesto.