The first snow of late November drifted lazily over Brussels, dusting the International Lyceum's stone courtyard with the soft white of a postcard. Students arrived bundled in scarves and gloves, chattering about winter break, exams, and the rumors of a "transfer student" that had been circulating all week. Stefan walked through the gates with his usual calm stride, the cold air barely touching him. His breath fogged faintly, and the pale morning sun cast a sharp halo around him.
He had a bad feeling.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing supernatural. Just an instinct—not from this life, but from the other one.
Snow + silence + unexplained arrival = something deliberate.
Lucas Reinhardt hurried up beside him, rubbing his hands for warmth.
"You don't look happy," he noted. "You look like my father when someone's trying to bribe him."
Stefan raised an eyebrow. "Your father accepts bribes?"
"No," Lucas said. "Which is why he looks like that a lot."
Before Stefan could reply, someone collided with Lucas from behind.
"COMMANDER WEISS!" Julien Morel shouted, slipping dramatically on the thin snow and grabbing Lucas's coat to stay upright. "We have a situation!"
Stefan blinked. "Why are you shouting at seven-thirty in the morning?"
"Because!" Julien dusted himself off with exaggerated seriousness. "There is a spy among us."
Lucas sighed. "Is this about the cafeteria lady again?"
"No." Julien narrowed his eyes. "This one is a student."
Stefan exchanged a glance with Lucas.
Julien as an informant was—unreliable. Entertaining, but unreliable.
Still… something had felt off since dawn.
Before he could question Julien further, the school gates opened again, letting in a sleek black car the color of polished obsidian. It rolled to a gentle stop. A driver in a dark coat stepped out and opened the rear door with an almost military precision.
A boy emerged.
He looked around thirteen—tall for his age, poised, with striking silver-blonde hair and eyes the color of winter steel. His uniform was immaculate, his scarf perfectly arranged. But it was his smile that caught Stefan's attention.
Calm. Practiced. Friendly—but not too friendly.
A smile crafted the same way politicians crafted handshakes.
Julien leaned toward Stefan and whispered loudly,
"Behold. A villain arc incoming."
Elena Varga approached them, tightening her coat. "Who is he?"
"The new transfer," Lucas said. "Weren't you listening during announcements?"
"I was solving a differential equation while the teacher was talking," Elena deadpanned. "You think I pay attention to morning small talk?"
Stefan stepped forward slightly, observing the newcomer with a soldier's eyes disguised behind a child's face.
The boy met his gaze immediately.
And his smile sharpened just a fraction—not visible to others, but Stefan caught it.
A recognition of sorts.
Not personal. Not emotional.
Strategic.
The boy approached the four of them without hesitation.
"Good morning," he said, voice smooth, accent perfectly neutral—European but not rooted. "I'm Adrian von Lichtenberg." He extended a hand first to Stefan. "A pleasure."
Von Lichtenberg.
Stefan felt both of his past lives stir.
In this world:
A name tied to old Austrian nobility. Wealthy. Politically connected.
In his other life:
Austria had often played the quiet game—never loud, always watching.
Stefan shook his hand lightly. "Stefan Weiss."
Adrian's eyes flickered with something—quick calculation, subtle and dangerous.
"I've heard of your family," Adrian said pleasantly. "Banking dynasties are rare these days."
Lucas shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, nothing rude," Adrian answered at once. "Just admiration." He smiled again. "I look forward to learning from the brightest students here."
Julien crossed his arms. "Why do I feel insulted?"
"Because you're French," Elena said.
"HEY!"
Adrian chuckled politely, then turned back to Stefan. "I'll be in your class. I hope we can get along."
A gentle sentence.
A harmless one.
And yet Stefan felt the same chill he used to experience when meeting rival commanders under a white flag.
A smile that hides the knife.
The morning history lecture began with the teacher introducing Adrian to the class. Adrian delivered a short, flawless greeting in French, then in English, then in German. Students murmured in approval.
Julien whispered to Stefan, "Three languages? Showoff."
Elena whispered back, "You speak four."
"That's not the point!"
Adrian took the seat directly behind Stefan.
Strategic choice.
Close enough to observe him.
Close enough to interrupt him.
Close enough to present himself as equal.
As the teacher spoke about post-war European reconstruction, Stefan felt Adrian's gaze on the back of his head—not aggressive, but analytical.
At the end of the lecture, Adrian leaned forward slightly.
"That answer you gave the teacher," he said softly. "About coalition dependencies. It was… impressive."
Stefan glanced at him. "It wasn't meant to impress."
"Oh, I know." Adrian smiled. "That's what makes it impressive."
Lucas whispered from Stefan's right,
"I don't like him."
Julien whispered from Stefan's left,
"I like him less than cafeteria meatloaf."
Elena simply muttered,
"He's too polished. Children aren't supposed to be that polished."
Stefan remained silent.
He had met many Adrians before.
Generals in training.
Heirs groomed for diplomacy.
Children whose smiles had been sharpened into weapons.
The cafeteria buzzed with its usual energy: laughter, gossip, the chaos of multilingual arguments about food. Stefan sat with Lucas, Elena, and Julien at their usual corner table—one that offered good visibility of entrances and exits, a habit Stefan hadn't been able to unlearn.
Adrian entered the room, scanning for a place to sit.
He found them immediately.
Julien gulped. "He's coming this way. Quick, look uninviting."
Lucas squinted. "How do we do that?"
Julien bared his teeth like an angry squirrel.
Elena stared at him. "Never do that again."
Adrian reached their table, tray in hand.
"Mind if I join you?"
Julien opened his mouth to refuse—Stefan spoke first.
"Go ahead."
Julien turned to him, horrified. "What—why?!"
Stefan didn't answer. He simply shifted slightly, allowing Adrian to sit across from him.
Adrian smiled gratefully. "Thanks. I was told this is the table where the smartest students usually gather."
Julien nearly choked. "Well, yes, obviously—since I am here—"
Elena coughed so loudly and so pointedly that half the cafeteria turned to look.
Adrian laughed softly and cut into his food with perfect posture. "It's refreshing to see a friend group with… character."
Lucas frowned. "Is that sarcasm?"
"No," Adrian said pleasantly. "Just an observation."
Stefan watched him—not the food, not the gestures, but the small details.
Adrian's eyes didn't wander.
He wasn't scoping the cafeteria.
He wasn't distracted.
He was focused entirely on Stefan.
That was the most suspicious part.
"You've adapted quickly to the school," Stefan said.
Adrian's expression warmed. "Observing patterns helps."
A normal answer.
A dangerous one.
Stefan leaned back. "Patterns can be misleading if you assume they repeat."
Adrian's smile didn't falter. "And yet, the world loves repeating itself."
Their eyes locked.
Lucas felt the tension.
Elena sensed the undercurrent.
Julien realized two alphas were circling each other.
He whispered to Lucas,
"This is like watching two cats fight by politely rearranging each other's furniture."
Lucas nodded slowly. "That's… weirdly accurate."
Classes ended. Snow continued falling. Students hurried out to cars, buses, and trams.
Stefan walked toward the school gate—but stopped when he saw a small envelope sticking out of his locker. No name. No seal. Only a single black thread tied around it.
He opened it.
Inside was a note, meticulously handwritten:
"The new boy is not what he pretends.
Be cautious whom you allow near your circle."
No signature.
No clue.
But Stefan recognized the handwriting style.
Italian.
Elegant strokes.
Old-fashioned.
His grandfather Vittorio's world.
Not from Vittorio himself—someone trained under him.
As he closed the note, he sensed a presence behind him.
Adrian.
"That's an interesting expression," Adrian said lightly. "Bad news?"
Stefan slipped the note into his pocket. "Nothing important."
Adrian stepped closer—not threatening, but confident.
"Stefan Weiss," he said calmly, "I hope we can get to know each other better. You and I… we're similar."
Stefan held his gaze. "I hope you're wrong."
Adrian's smile widened.
"That," he whispered, "is exactly why I'm right."
Then he walked away, boots crunching lightly over the snow.
Stefan exhaled.
Lucas approached him. "What did he want?"
Julien poked Stefan's shoulder. "Do we have to fight him? I can throw a waffle at him."
Elena facepalmed. "You are a disgrace to strategy."
Stefan stared at the snow-covered path Adrian had left behind.
"No," he said softly. "We don't fight him."
"Then what do we do?" Lucas asked.
Stefan's eyes sharpened—not filled with fear, but calculation.
"We watch him."
He looked at his friends—loyal, flawed, brilliant in their own ways.
"And we make sure," Stefan whispered,
"that he doesn't learn more about us than we learn about him."