The morning light bathed the La Moraleja estate in a deceptively gentle warmth. The air smelled faintly of blooming jasmine, birds flitted across the garden, and the fountain at the center of the courtyard sang its endless murmur. On the surface, everything spoke of peace and prosperity.
Yet Stefan, with his five years and the weight of memories from another life, sensed the undercurrents his parents and grandparents tried so carefully to hide. The birthday celebration had passed weeks ago, yet the echo of that hushed conversation between his father Fabio and Jean Morel still clung to the walls like a ghost. Even laughter at the breakfast table seemed thinner, more fragile, as though every adult feared the silence that might follow.
The guards remained discreet, stationed at the garden's edges, near the driveway, at the entrances of the house. Their dark suits and unreadable expressions had become part of the scenery, like statues in a palace. Stefan had grown used to their constant presence. Still, in the back of his mind, a truth whispered: in his other life, security was rarely this visible unless danger lurked nearby.
He tested them sometimes. Running too far into the hedges, disappearing behind the orange trees, or climbing to the edge of the fountain. Every time, one of the men appeared within seconds, calling softly but firmly, "Señorito Stefan, cuidado."
He would nod, flash an innocent grin, and obey. But inside, he recorded their efficiency, their patterns, the limits of his invisible cage.
That day, the estate was in motion. Servants bustled about, preparing tables with white linen, polishing silverware until it gleamed, arranging vases of carnations and lilies in every hall. Old family friends, business partners, and political allies were expected under the pretense of a casual luncheon.
Stefan knew better. These were not simple visits. Every handshake, every smile, every toast was a move on a board few admitted existed.
His mother, Lena, leaned down to fix his collar before the guests arrived. "Remember, Stefan—today you must be polite. Play, laugh, don't frown. Let them see you as a child."
He nodded, offering her the most innocent smile he could muster. To them, I will be a child. But I will be listening.The first to arrive were Heinrich and Anna, his maternal grandparents. Heinrich, tall and composed, carried with him the cool discipline of Switzerland. He spoke little, his German accent sharpening every word, but his presence radiated order. Anna complemented him, her gentler tone smoothing the edges of his severity.
Not long after, Vittorio and Carmen swept in. Vittorio, with his neatly combed hair and carefully trimmed mustache, looked as if he had stepped straight from a boardroom. Carmen, in contrast, entered like a storm of color—her dress bright, her laughter loud, her perfume filling the room before she even sat down.
The contrast fascinated Stefan. Heinrich with his measured precision, Carmen with her fiery warmth; Vittorio with his strategic calm, Anna with her quiet grace. Two cultures, two traditions, meeting under one roof. To Stefan, it was like watching two rivers converge, their currents both clashing and merging. He filed away every dynamic, every glance. This is how alliances are built—not just through power, but through family.
That afternoon, Stefan's wooden blocks were no longer toys—they became symbols. He built a wall, then a tower, then positioned small figurines around it. Soon, the other children of visiting families joined him.
"What if we attack from here?" one boy asked eagerly, pointing at a gap in the blocks.
"No," Stefan replied calmly. "If you attack there, you'll be trapped. You need to lure the defenders out first."
They obeyed, adjusting pieces according to his suggestion. Within minutes, the play had transformed into a small campaign. Stefan assigned roles: generals, scouts, defenders. Some followed eagerly, others hesitated, but slowly they all looked to him for direction.
From a distance, Vittorio watched with a thoughtful smile, stroking his mustache as if he were reviewing numbers on a ledger. "That child," he murmured to Heinrich, "has the gift of an orator. Not by shouting, but by making others want to follow."
Heinrich gave a slow, grave nod. "I've seen it too. A gift… and a burden. People expect much from those who carry it."
The two men fell into silence, each contemplating the weight of what they had just witnessed.
Evening arrived with long shadows stretching across the garden. The children still played, chasing each other under the watchful eyes of the guards. Stefan was laughing at a silly joke when the gates opened.
Fabio's car rolled into the driveway. He stepped out flanked by Jean Morel and two men whose posture screamed military training. Fabio's smile was there, but thin, stretched. Jean looked as though the Madrid sun itself weighed upon him.
As they entered the house, Stefan felt it immediately—a shift in the air. Conversations faltered, the servants moved more briskly, and the warmth of the afternoon cooled into unease. From the staircase, half-hidden, Stefan saw Jean slip a folder into Fabio's hand. Quick, discreet, but to Stefan's sharp eyes unmistakable.
Something has changed.
That night, the dining room shone with candlelight. Plates clinked, glasses of wine were raised, and polite laughter filled the air. To an outsider, it was the image of harmony.
Yet Stefan sensed the cracks beneath the veneer. His father's laughter came seconds too late, Jean's smile never reached his eyes, and Vittorio kept adjusting his napkin as if to distract himself.
"Stefan," Carmen said suddenly, leaning toward him with her ever-bright smile, "tell me, mi cielo, what did you play today?"
"We built a fortress," Stefan answered, his voice clear. "Everyone had a role. And we won because we worked together."
The table laughed warmly at his innocence, but Stefan noticed the way Fabio froze for half a second, and how Heinrich's gaze sharpened ever so slightly. His words, spoken like a child, had struck closer to the truth than anyone admitted.
Later that night, Stefan lay in his bed. The fire in the small hearth flickered, shadows dancing across the walls. From the garden, he could still hear faint footsteps of the guards patrolling.
He reviewed the day piece by piece: the unity he commanded in play, the cautious looks between his grandparents, the heavy folder passed from Jean to Fabio.
Every friendship begun, every smile exchanged, every secret overheard—they are my groundwork.
Closing his eyes, he felt the determination settle in him like iron. If the future of Spain, of Europe, was already being shaped here, in whispers and hidden files, then he would not be a bystander.
He would be ready.
And with that thought, he drifted into sleep—his heart steady, his will unshaken, his young face serene in the glow of the fire.