Morning broke over Brussels with a pale silver light—the kind that blurred the line between awakening and contemplation. The Weiss estate stirred with quiet precision, every routine executed like a rehearsed symphony. Stefan, now twelve, moved through the corridors with controlled grace. Childhood no longer fit him; those around him sensed it. Vittorio saw a future statesman in training, Heinrich identified a strategist forming, and Lena… Lena feared both truths.
Today, however, was not a day of private tutors, diplomatic briefings, or family expectations. It was a school day—the single thread tying him to something resembling an ordinary life.
The International Lyceum of Brussels was a fortress of polished stone and old money. Its students wore the surnames of diplomats, financiers, military elites and quiet ruling families. The walls of the Lyceum carried more secrets than most national archives. Stefan entered its gates not as a student, but as a soldier wearing a uniform of youth.
He walked beside Lucas Reinhardt, a boy from Munich whose eyes carried the acute awareness of someone raised by a man who knew too much. Colonel Reinhardt of NATO Intelligence had sharpened his son early—not with suspicion, but with perception. That was what made Lucas valuable to Stefan: he noticed the invisible.
A few steps behind, Anya Volkner followed with her notebooks pressed against her chest. She spoke little, yet Stefan never mistook her silence for timidity. It was the silence of someone who listened to learn, not to be overlooked.
"Are you coming to the lecture on European defense realignment?" Lucas asked, adjusting his satchel as they entered the assembly hall.
Stefan's reply was calm, almost clinical."It won't be a lecture on defense. It will be a justification of deterrence dressed in softer language."
Lucas huffed a quiet laugh. "You sound like my father."
"I doubt it," Stefan said, eyes narrowing with a faint, knowing glint. "Your father still believes deterrence is built on fear. It's built on predictability."
The lecture began. The professor spoke of peace initiatives, regional cooperation, and economic partnerships. Yet Stefan listened for what wasn't spoken. Arms trades strategically glossed over. Currency dependency framed as unity. Cultural influence disguised as diplomacy. It was the language of polite empires—wars fought without armies, borders redrawn on trade agreements, nations conquered through reliance.
He had seen battlefields in another life—sand, smoke, iron, and death shouted in many tongues. Today's battlefield was quieter, but no less dangerous.
By the end of the week, his circle had grown. Julien Morel, son of a French diplomat, had attached himself to them—loud, charismatic, reckless. Many found him arrogant; Stefan found him… useful. Julien could open doors with a smile that others could only break down with force.
And then there was Elena Varga, a Romanian girl whose mind worked like a stock exchange: fast, analytical, unforgiving. She had an instinct for economics rare for a child—almost feral in its precision.
The five of them gathered beneath a towering oak overlooking the athletic field one afternoon. Students played and laughed nearby, the air filled with innocence Stefan could no longer fully share.
"What do you see when you look at them?" Stefan asked, gesturing subtly toward the carefree group.
Julien shrugged. "Children. Spoiled ones at that."
Elena tapped her pen thoughtfully. "Future inheritors of influence. Some will matter, most won't."
Stefan shook his head gently. "No. They are opportunities. Not allies, not enemies yet—raw potential. Every person carries leverage. The only difference is who sees it first."
Lucas stretched his legs out. "You sound like my father and my headmaster fused into one unnerving person."
Instead of responding, Stefan pulled a small notebook from his coat and drew a grid—names, traits, connections, family influence. Not a plan. A map. A silent warboard.
Elena leaned closer. "You're building a network."
"I'm studying the battlefield," he corrected. "Before you move pieces, you must understand the board."
Lucas exhaled slowly. "You really are going to run a country someday, aren't you?"
Stefan looked toward the horizon—beyond the school walls, beyond Belgium, beyond the present."Not run it," he murmured. "Shape it."
Life at home remained rigorous. Evenings belonged to lessons no school could provide. Vittorio fed him economic theory like a blade being honed. Heinrich walked him through political memoranda and statecraft as if teaching a child to hold fire. Lena watched all of it with a soft dread, the kind that only mothers of extraordinary sons understand.
When the house grew quiet, another mentor waited.
Herr Krüger had returned after months abroad. His forearms bore scars from conflicts stretching across Africa and the Balkans—memories carved into flesh. Stefan recognized the weight behind them. Once, in another name and another life, he had worn similar marks.
"You hold the blade too high," Krüger said while circling him during practice. "Precision isn't speed—it's intent."
"I know," Stefan answered, adjusting his stance. "Every move must have meaning."
Krüger's eyes narrowed slightly. "You speak like someone who has seen combat."
Stefan parried with flawless timing. "You speak like someone who survived it."
No more words were needed. Soldiers understood each other in silence.
Later that night, Lucas stayed at the Weiss estate. Lena had invited him with the hope of encouraging "normal friendships." The boys shared a late meal in Stefan's study, surrounded by maps, notes, and dossiers of current events Stefan wasn't supposed to have access to.
Lucas watched him write. "You never stop planning, do you?"
"Planning," Stefan replied without looking up, "is the only way to control chaos."
"You sound twice your age."
Stefan's next words slipped out before he could stop them."I am."
Lucas blinked. "What?"
Stefan paused, lowered his pen, and shut the notebook. "Nothing." He studied Lucas quietly for a moment. "Let me ask you something. If someone understood the direction of history—not exact events, but the patterns—would that be a blessing… or a curse?"
Lucas thought for a moment. "Depends on what he does with it."
A faint, genuine smile touched Stefan's lips."Good answer."