The first hints of dawn filtered through the curtains of Stefan's room, casting muted gold across his desk. The radio hummed faintly in the background—a morning news bulletin in French, clipped and serious. Stefan, now twelve years old, sat with a notebook open, his handwriting small but sharp, as if his pen were carving the future rather than merely writing it.
"…economic negotiations continue across the European Community," the journalist reported. "Rising concerns over inflation, technological dependency, and shifting alliances with the United States remain at the forefront of discussion."
Stefan sipped his warm milk without taking his eyes off the page. The world was changing, and he could feel it—like tremors beneath a calm surface. It was not chaos, not yet, but currents forming beneath the feet of those too complacent to notice.
On his desk lay three newspapers, meticulously spread open: Le Soir, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, and The Times. He scanned them as a general would study multiple battlefronts at once.
Britain struggled with labor strikes and industrial decline.West Germany accelerated technological research funding.France pushed for greater cultural influence within Europe.Japan advanced quietly and steadily in electronics.The United States showed volatility in its tech sector.
Stefan tapped his pen against the table—once, twice, three times.
Patterns. There were always patterns. And where patterns emerged, so did opportunity.
For a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted elsewhere—to a different battlefield. Not of polished conference rooms or gilded halls, but of dust, iron, and gunfire. Memory—too vivid for a boy his age—stirred like a ghost. The smell of oil, the metallic tang of fear, men with hardened eyes calling him brother-in-arms.
A previous life. A chapter no one in this world would ever know.
He closed his eyes for two seconds and let the phantom smoke clear. When he opened them again, he was twelve. A boy on the cusp of shaping a world that still thought him harmless.
By breakfast, his conclusions had crystallized: Technology and energy would define the next decades. Whoever held them would shape nations, economies, and the future.
The Weiss dining hall was bathed in warm morning light, the long oak table set with pastries, fruit, and the quiet clinking of porcelain. His family gathered: his grandfathers Vittorio and Gianluca, both in unusually good spirits; his father Fabio, reviewing notes for an upcoming meeting; and his mother Lena, serene as always, her presence a quiet elegance that anchored the family.
Stefan listened more than he spoke, absorbing fragments of conversation like puzzle pieces.
"…the cultural reception in Brussels will require careful seating arrangements," Lena remarked. "The French delegation is sensitive to perceived slights."
"As always," Fabio muttered with a small smile. "But we'll manage. Geneva will be more interesting—financial ministers rarely pretend to like one another."
Gianluca laughed. "You make it sound like a gladiator pit."
"It is," Fabio replied. "Only the weapons are numbers and pride."
Stefan's lips curved faintly. Numbers and pride topple more empires than swords ever did.
Gianluca noticed his expression. "Stefan, you're quiet this morning. Plotting something?"
The boy allowed a thin, polite smile. "Just thinking about the future."
Vittorio chuckled. "At twelve? The future can wait at least until dessert."
Stefan looked at him steadily. "The future doesn't wait. It's already moving."
Both grandfathers exchanged a brief look—not mockery, not dismissal, but recognition. The kind men share when they witness a mind that is… different.
Lena, however, tilted her head. "Thinking is good, Stefan. But do not forget to enjoy being a child when you can."
Stefan nodded respectfully, though inside he knew the truth: childhood had never belonged to him.
Lessons followed breakfast—languages, debate, mathematics. His tutor for international affairs, Monsieur Delacroix, assigned an essay about the European Community's long-term prospects.
Stefan completed it in twenty-five minutes.
Delacroix read the last paragraph three times, then stared at Stefan with a mixture of admiration and unease.
"This perspective is… unusually strategic for your age."
Stefan only answered, "Europe must decide whether it is a tapestry or a mosaic. One is woven to endure. The other falls apart with missing pieces."
Delacroix had no reply.
Next came fencing. Herr Krüger observed how Stefan's strikes were sharper, cleaner, less hesitant than before.
"You move as if your body obeys decisions made long before your muscles act," Krüger commented.
"The body is merely the echo of thought," Stefan replied softly.
Krüger blinked. "Who told you that?"
"No one." It had been a principle learned on a battlefield that never existed in this life.
After lunch, Stefan retreated to his study, the villa unusually quiet. The air carried the scent of polished wood and parchment—a comforting, familiar space. He spread a blank sheet across the desk and began drafting a list of companies, categorizing them with ruthless clarity.
Energy & Infrastructure
ENI – Italian oil and gas expansion into Mediterranean markets offers long-term influence.
Royal Dutch Shell – Global presence; strong leverage in geopolitical negotiations.
Siemens (Energy Division) – Potential to innovate energy tech; early foundation advantageous.
Computing & Electronics
IBM – Unquestionable giant, but vulnerable to innovation shifts.
Philips – European potential; strong research branches in the Netherlands.
Siemens (Tech & Research) – Dual strength across sectors—high long-term payoff.
Thomson-CSF (France) – Military and electronics fusion; valuable in future intelligence economy.
Transport & Logistics
Lufthansa – Stability and European identity; potential diplomatic asset.
Alitalia – Riskier, but Italy's aviation may grow under right strategic reforms.
Maersk – Global shipping dominance—control of trade arteries.
He added notes—predictions, risk evaluations, future leverage points.
Not for now.Not for a child.But one day, this list would be a war map.
He wrote a single sentence beneath the last line:
Invest early. Influence early. Shape early.
It was a rule of war, repurposed for finance.
As afternoon faded into evening, Stefan stepped outside into the garden. The sky was dipped in amber and violet, the air cooling with the quiet promise of night. He sat on a stone bench surrounded by trimmed hedges and the earthy scent of autumn leaves.
He watched the horizon, his thoughts drifting like the breeze.
Europe… a land of fragmented pride. Nations with glorious pasts—Rome, the Holy Roman Empire, the kingdoms of France and Spain, the maritime might of Portugal and Britain—now reduced to conferences, treaties, and cautious diplomacy.
"So much legacy," he murmured. "So many borders drawn from old scars."
But beneath the scars lay something older. Something that predated kings, revolutions, treaties, wars.
Unity.
Not political. Not economic. Civilizational.
One people, once one empire, speaking one language of law and culture. A foundation powerful enough to spread across continents and centuries.
He exhaled, not in sadness, but in knowing.
"Before the scars… we were one."
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked. The corners of his lips lifted—not a smile of arrogance, but of understanding.
One empire.One root.One identity.
He whispered, almost reverently:
"Latin."
The word lingered in the air—ancient, mighty, unbroken.
A reminder.A seed.A promise.
The wind carried it across the silent garden, as if acknowledging it.
Stefan leaned back, eyes reflecting the dying light of day. The seeds had been planted.
Where others would see fragmented nations, he saw the blueprint of revival.
The world was shifting.
And Stefan intended to shape the shift before anyone else even noticed it had begun.