Morning arrived with a crisp, winter clarity that wrapped the Weiss villa in a muted glow. The sky above Brussels carried the pale blue of early December—cold, but not lifeless. Stefan awoke before the sun had fully risen, as always. Routine was a sanctuary, discipline a shield, and purpose the silent engine guiding every breath.
He sat at his desk, a steaming cup of cocoa beside him. Twelve years old, but with eyes that held a depth no twelve-year-old should possess. His notebook lay open, filled with neat rows of observations—economic currents, political shifts, the tremors beneath the surface of Europe in 1982. But today, his focus was not Europe.
Today, he was going to Geneva.
His father, Fabio Weiss, had been invited to an economic policy forum regarding European youth development and technological innovation. A symbolic event. A façade. Behind the closed doors, the real discussions would concern future fiscal leverage and Switzerland's role in the next decade of European integration.
Vittorio and Gianluca were already downstairs, reading newspapers in the dining hall.
"Stefan," Vittorio said without looking up, "remember that Geneva is polite, but never innocent."
Gianluca folded his paper. "And the people you see smiling are often the ones hiding the longest knives."
Stefan nodded. He had already learned that.
The flight to Geneva was smooth. The Weiss family was greeted with courtesy, but courtesy meant little to Stefan. He had come to observe, to learn, to predict. Every conference, every forum, every gathering of adults drunk on influence offered hints—hints of the Europe he intended to shape.
The conference hall was a blend of luxury and restraint: polished stone floors, minimalist Swiss design, and a precisely controlled temperature that whispered efficiency. Delegates from France, West Germany, Italy, Belgium, and the Netherlands mingled like cautious predators.
Fabio was quickly absorbed into conversation. Meanwhile, Stefan found a corner table, taking notes as he watched the room.
Then, a familiar voice rose behind him.
"Whose empire are you planning today, small Weiss?"
Stefan turned slowly.
Standing there, leaning on her cane with theatrical elegance, was Countess Verena von Altenburg, an aging Austrian aristocrat with a reputation for disrupting meetings simply by attending them. She had no official title left that mattered—but her presence mattered to everyone. Because Verena had survived decades of political games without ever truly losing.
She was, in other words, a perfect reminder of what an enemy might look like.
"Good morning, Countess," Stefan said politely. "I'm not planning an empire."
"Lies," she laughed. "I can smell ambition the way wolves smell blood. Sit up straighter. You slouch like someone carrying too many futures."
Stefan straightened. "If I am carrying futures, they are not only my own."
"Oh, that," she said with a wave of her wrinkled hand, "is exactly what someone building an empire would say."
He didn't answer. She smirked.
"Your grandfathers fear you will outgrow even them," she whispered. "And that means you will. So the question is… what will you do when you stand alone at the top of your mountain?"
Stefan didn't blink. "I'll build a higher one."
Verena froze—eyes widening, then narrowing in appreciation.
"You dangerous child," she murmured with delight. "I can't wait to see which parts of Europe you set on fire."
The youth development panel began in the afternoon. Rows of students sat in polished wooden chairs, dressed in formal attire, rehearsed in their polite smiles. Stefan found his assigned place among them. Some were curious, some nervous, some bored.
He, however, was scanning for patterns.
Three officials spoke about "fostering education" and "supporting the leaders of tomorrow." Stefan found himself biting back a sigh. Their words were empty—speeches crafted for applause, not substance.
When the moderator announced that a select number of students would be allowed to speak, the room shifted. Interest sharpened. Opportunity vibrated in the air.
Names were called. Five in total.
The fifth was his.
"Stefan Weiss, International Lyceum of Brussels."
He rose, walked to the microphone, and felt the weight of the room settle on him.
"I believe," Stefan began, voice steady and calm, "that Europe must invest not only in education but in structure. Young people cannot become future leaders if the systems around them are too fractured to support progress."
Several adults straightened.
"Unity is not a slogan," he continued. "It is strategy. If Europe continues to operate as a cluster of competing islands, we will lose ground to every consolidated power—America, the USSR, and Japan."
Someone in the back murmured.
"The question is not whether we can work together," Stefan said, eyes sweeping the crowd. "The question is whether we can afford not to."
Silence stretched. A powerful silence. Heavy, thoughtful.
Then applause rolled through the room.
Fabio watched with quiet astonishment. Vittorio would have called it alignment. Gianluca would have called it momentum.
But Stefan simply called it… necessary.
That evening, a private reception was held at a lakeside villa. Stefan found himself drifting between groups, listening more than speaking. He observed diplomats laugh while calculating leverage. He watched ministers accept wine with one hand and silence with the other. He studied tension—not in conflict, but in the delicate balance of mutual advantage.
Then, he overheard a conversation that caught his attention.
A tall man with a sharp jawline and cold eyes spoke to an Italian official.
"…the Weiss family is overreaching," the man said. "Their influence grows every year. Dangerous. The boy is the worst of all—too perceptive. Too quiet. Those are the ones you never see until they strike."
Stefan recognized the man instantly.
Leonhard Sutter.
Swiss Federal Council member.
Rival of his grandfather Gianluca.
Known for: ambition, vindictiveness, and a disastrous ability to hold grudges.
Stefan stepped closer, making no effort to hide his presence.
Sutter turned. His polite smile did not reach his eyes.
"Young Weiss," he said. "Enjoying the reception?"
"Very much," Stefan replied coolly. "Especially the conversation about me."
Sutter's smile strained. "Children should not eavesdrop."
"Adults should not underestimate children," Stefan answered.
The official next to Sutter coughed awkwardly and quickly excused himself. Sutter's expression twisted into something darker.
"You carry your family's arrogance."
"No," Stefan said. "I carry their expectations. There's a difference."
A moment of tense silence.
Then Sutter leaned in slightly. "Your grandfathers have made many enemies. I hope you understand that inheriting power means inheriting danger."
Stefan met his gaze without fear. "I don't inherit danger, Councilor. I study it."
Sutter's eyes narrowed.
But before he could respond—
A hand suddenly rested on Stefan's shoulder.
"You're spending too much time with wolves, young master."
Stefan turned.
There, dressed in a simple black suit, with quiet footsteps and the unmistakable aura of someone who had survived more than most men ever would—
Herr Krüger.
His fencing instructor.
Former mercenary.
Former soldier.
Former something else he still refused to name.
"What are you doing here?" Stefan asked.
Krüger smiled faintly. "Your grandfather asked me to keep an eye on the reception. And on you."
Sutter scoffed. "A bodyguard? How predictable."
Krüger's eyes, normally calm, turned to steel.
"Predictability," he said softly, "keeps the living alive. The dead had too much imagination."
Sutter paled. Just slightly.
Krüger guided Stefan away.
"You shouldn't provoke men like him," Krüger murmured once they were out of earshot.
"I wasn't provoking him," Stefan said. "I was warning him."
Krüger sighed. "That's worse."
Later that night, as Stefan stood alone on the balcony overlooking Lake Geneva, he felt the cold bite of winter brush against his skin. The sky reflected on the calm water like a sheet of polished steel.
In his previous life, Geneva had been a place of treaties. Agreements. Temporary peace. Always temporary.
But now…
Now he was seeing it anew.
Europe was a chessboard.
And he was beginning to see every square.
Footsteps approached—soft, steady.
His father.
Fabio joined him at the railing. "You handled yourself well today."
"Thank you."
"But you must be cautious," Fabio continued. "Men like Sutter… they don't forget insults."
"I didn't insult him," Stefan said. "I clarified our positions."
Fabio sighed. "You really are your grandfathers' grandson."
Stefan allowed himself a small smile.
Fabio placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"That you'll become strong enough to survive the world you're trying to build."
Stefan looked at the lake—deep, cold, unwavering.
"I will," he said. "Because this time… I won't let Europe fall apart."
Geneva's lights flickered in the water below.
A continent was waiting.
And the boy who saw the future was already planning how to reshape it.