The Weiss estate woke under a hush of winter's breath. Frost clung to the iron gates, and the garden hedges glittered like silver-trimmed battlements beneath the early light. Inside, warmth hummed through the halls—coffee brewing, papers rustling, the soft steps of staff beginning their morning ritual.
Stefan had been awake long before that.
His feet pressed against the cool marble tiles of his room as he moved through controlled motions—balance drills, slow strikes, footwork patterns. Not fencing practice, not martial arts—something in between. Something he remembered from another life.
A life of sand, sweat, and steel.
Discipline isn't the sacrifice. Indiscipline is the cost, he reminded himself.
He finished the sequence with a final exhalation, breath steady and controlled. The first light of dawn painted him in pale gold as if the day itself acknowledged the ritual.
He walked to his desk, where three notebooks lay open:
• one for strategic reflections,
• one for European developments,
• one for personal improvement.
On today's page, he wrote:
"Routine is not monotony. Routine is the sharpening of the blade."
He underlined "sharpening" twice.
A faint memory flickered across his mind—men around a fire, exhausted after a mission, each cleaning his weapon with mechanical care. No one questioned the ritual. Survival demanded it.
And Europe had forgotten this truth.
In this life, war was not fought with rifles—yet. But Stefan knew how quickly complacent peace could turn to chaos. He had seen the collapse once. He would not watch it again.
The breakfast table brought a scene that would have appeared ordinary to an outsider—yet nothing involving the Weiss family was ever ordinary.
Vittorio, composed in his immaculate suit, read Italian economic reports. Gianluca skimmed the Swiss Tages-Anzeiger, glasses sitting low on his nose. Fabio reviewed notes for a diplomatic luncheon; his brow held a weight Stefan could sense but not yet name. Lena moved with calm elegance—her silence often more expressive than words.
Stefan arrived after training, posture straight, expression serene.
"You're up early," Fabio remarked, though he said it as though it were no surprise.
"Earlier than the sun," Gianluca added, eyeing Stefan over the rim of his coffee cup. "This is the third morning I've seen him cross the courtyard at the hour of wolves."
Vittorio folded his newspaper. "Discipline is admirable. But balance is necessary. You are twelve, not a head of state."
Stefan responded gently, without defiance, "A future is built long before one reaches it."
The room paused—not frozen, but listening.
Lena lifted her gaze, something tender yet cautious behind it. Fabio exhaled through his nose, as though deciding whether to intervene or let the moment settle.
It was Gianluca who spoke first. "Determination becomes legacy when guided well. But even legacy must rest."
"I rest," Stefan said. "Just not before I earn it."
A subtle exchange occurred between the three men—Fabio, Vittorio, and Gianluca. Not disapproval. Recognition.
The Weiss heir was not playing at ambition. He was cultivating it.
Later that afternoon, Stefan moved to the courtyard for footwork drills, using chalk to mark patterns across the stone tiles. Wind bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the cold—it built resilience. His steps traced shapes: triangles, arcs, shifting lines of attack and retreat.
A geometry of movement.
In my other life, I trained to survive missions. Here, I train to build one.
He finished the last sequence and stood still, heart steady, gaze firm.
Clapping broke the silence.
Fabio stood near the archway, hands pocketed, coat draped over his shoulders. Beside him stood Vittorio and Gianluca, having joined quietly without interrupting.
"You train as if preparing for a war no one sees," Fabio said.
Stefan wiped a bead of sweat from his chin. "Most wars are unseen until they arrive."
Vittorio's lips twitched in the hint of a smile. "That line belongs in a book."
"Or a speech," Gianluca added. "Preferably when you're older than twelve."
Stefan returned a faint smile. "If I wait until I'm older, it may be too late."
The three adults exchanged another look. This time not simply recognition—concern mixed with admiration.
Fabio approached first, placing a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "Ambition is a powerful fire, Stefan. But fire consumes as easily as it warms."
Stefan held his father's gaze. "I don't burn for glory. I burn to be ready."
For a moment, Fabio saw something in his son that unsettled him—not arrogance, not obsession, but clarity. A clarity adults rarely possessed.
"We will support your growth," Vittorio said, stepping forward. "But never forget—strength is corrupted when it forgets why it was forged."
Stefan nodded. "I won't forget."
Night settled over the estate, calm and star-touched. Stefan sat by his window, wrapped in a blanket, watching frost reclaim the garden.
He reflected—not on achievements, but on the path ahead.
Europe, in this era, believed itself stable. Confident. Civilized. Silent in its comfort.
Almost the same as before the fractures began.
He would not allow history to repeat itself out of ignorance and pride.
He wrote one last line before closing his journal:
"Those who prepare in peace will command in crisis."
With a slow breath, he allowed a rare softness to settle around him.
Not pressure. Motivation.
The kind of quiet that carried promise.
He looked out toward the sleeping estate, and a small determined warmth filled his chest.
Tomorrow, he would train again.
Not because he was running from weakness—
but because he was running toward the future.
One he intended to help reshape.
One disciplined morning at a time.