Winter had come to Madrid with a sharp breath, as though the city exhaled frost. The dawns were gray, the gardens of La Moraleja littered with brittle leaves, and the cold slanted against the windows of the estate like a reminder that comfort could always be unsettled. Stefan woke one morning feeling that the air itself carried an omen.
The routines in the house held firm, but their edges were sharper now. The guards were no longer background figures; they moved with posture, eyes alert, as if expecting trouble in any shadow. When his mother, Anna, and his father, Fabio, rode out in the early days, they plunged into traffic flanked by armored vehicles. Every route was planned; every turn scrutinized. Stefan watched from the car window, counting by heart the number of vehicles, the spacing of guards, the way car horns shattered the hush. It felt like stepping into a theater where the walls had ears.
Yet in the structure of days, Stefan found refuge. He rose early, before sunlight warmed the cold stone. He ran, measured speechless distances across garden paths, then stretched beneath pale sky. After his run, he would claim to want to draw or write, but really he returned to books—history, treaties, geography—studying them with hunger. He had memorized old treaties, the borders that had shifted, the names of leaders who had stood firm and those who had collapsed. His tutor often paused at his questions, eyebrow raised at how such ideas sprang from someone so young.
Afternoons were his experiments in power. He gathered children—some children of staff, some of neighbors—for "games of diplomacy." He'd draw maps in dirt, assign roles, and create alliances. In these games, he saw how trust forms, how loyalty shifts. Some children cowered when orders felt unclear; others asserted themselves. Stefan observed them quietly, learning not from his victories, but from their eyes when he spoke with certainty. Leadership, he understood, was less about command than about faith: that others believe in you enough to follow.
Dinner brought its own classroom. Vittorio spoke of expansion, of business opportunities in other countries. Carmen recounted the challenges of dealing with export tariffs, with Spanish bureaucracy. Anna argued for caution. Heinrich reminded them that ambition unchecked is dangerous. Stefan ate quietly, listening not to taste but to tone. He catalogued alliances and tensions like a general observing battle lines. The house burned with conversation, but Stefan felt neither warmth nor fire—only the steel coldness of purpose.
That night, Stefan hid away in his study. The lamp flickered; books lay open like silent judges. He translated passages, copied maps, drew routes. Words in other tongues, numbers, treaties—he devoured them. Then he wrote in his notebook: symbols, shorthand, arrows between nations, lines of power. He wasn't yet certain what he would build, but he saw what he must avoid: betrayal, laziness, complacency.
The following morning the sun returned with less warmth. Stefan practiced with Marco, the ex-military guard. Under the guise of play they engaged in drills: defense footwork, balance, coordination. He learned not to flinch at cold wind, not to hesitate when asked to hold a stance. Some moments he felt discomfort, weariness. Others, fierce joy: this body was becoming less fragile.
On Sundays, when the family gathered on the terrace, Stefan sat between adults, fingers curled on cup rims, eyes wide in attention. He absorbed jokes, half-jokes, complaints, rumors. He overheard talk of student protests in Europe, mistrust of governments, trade disagreements. He heard how fear, when wielded broadly, could inspire loyalty—but also how fragile that loyalty was when cracks formed. He watched his grandparents, their eyes narrowing, smiles stiffening. He felt the weight of being seen, yet not yet understood.
But there were moments of light. There were afternoons when he ran across the lawn, wind in his hair; when he laughed among cousins; when his mother kissed his forehead and told him he was clever. Those moments felt like breaths between storms. He cherished them fiercely—they were reminders of who he was, of what he was defending—not just his dreams, but his innocence.
Jean Morel remained a silent figure in all this. Stefan saw the documents he carried, the way his handshake with Fabio was firm. On some nights, their voices echoed low, and Stefan strained to catch fragments: "pressure from Brussels," "delays in policy," "risk of opposition." Jean never looked directly at him during those moments, but Stefan felt, instinctively, that Jean's eyes missed nothing.
Each night, Stefan closed his notebook with three phrases he held in his heart:
Fear may force obedience, but it builds no foundation.
True strength lies in trust, in ideas, not in the shadow of force.
Visibility demands vigilance; being seen is already a weapon.
He sealed the pages lightly, as though each sentence was a promise. And as he lay in bed, hearing the wind against windows and the distant bark of a guard's dog, he resolved: the cracks in the walls were real. The world was stirring. He would no longer hide in shadows; rather, he would shape what came next.
Because when the silence breaks, you must already know who you are—and what you stand for.