The frost had not yet melted when Stefan awoke, yet the estate already hummed with quiet unrest. He felt it in the rhythm of footsteps outside his chamber, in the clipped tones of guards reporting to Anna, in the strained politeness at breakfast. Something unseen pressed against the walls, like the weight of a storm gathering.
But Stefan knew the storm had not come from outside. It had begun with him.
The Dinner's Aftermath
The memory of the banquet lingered. The man — the intruder who smiled with his glass — had been dismissed as a diplomat's guest. No record of his name appeared in the household ledger. Jean insisted he was no threat. Yet Stefan's instincts told him otherwise.
What gnawed at him, however, was not the man's presence, but the aftermath.
The morning following that dinner, whispers crept through the halls: the German boy had repeated words he did not understand. He had spoken, with childlike certainty, of "alliances requiring balance" and "unity stronger than gold."
At first, the adults laughed. But as the boy's father listened more closely, his amusement gave way to silence. These were not words of a child. These were phrases sharpened, deliberate — words Stefan himself had planted during the "Silent Parliament."
By afternoon, suspicion had spread like smoke. Some parents were intrigued, others uneasy. What sort of boy spoke with such gravity? And what did it mean that their own children parroted him?
Confrontation at the Terrace
Two days later, Anna found Stefan standing on the frost-dusted terrace, staring out at the bare trees.
"They're talking about you," she said. Her voice carried neither reproach nor warmth — only caution.
Stefan turned, feigning innocence. "About me? Why?"
"Because their children carry your words home. They repeat them at dinner, in drawing rooms, in front of men and women who hold power. Do you understand what that means?"
Stefan hesitated, then offered a quiet smile. "It means they listened."
Anna's lips pressed into a thin line. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You play a dangerous game, Stefan. Children can say what they please, but when their words change the tone of a room — men will wonder whose voice truly speaks."
Her warning was sincere, but Stefan did not flinch. He understood now that even his smallest acts could ripple outward. And he resolved that ripples, once made, must be directed — not wasted.
The Test of Drift
That night, Stefan dreamt uneasily. He saw himself surrounded by laughing children, their voices a chorus of nonsense. Their games turned to chaos — rules broken, tokens scattered, maps torn apart. The "Parliament" dissolved into drift, each child swept by whim.
Then a shadow rose among them — a faceless figure who whispered: Let them drift. It is easier. Join them.
Stefan woke with a start, heart pounding. He recalled Hill's warnings: drift is the Devil's tool. To drift was to surrender purpose.
He sat upright, breathing steadily until his pulse slowed. Then, lighting a candle, he wrote in his notebook:
Discipline is the armor against drift. Without it, influence becomes noise. With it, influence becomes law.
He underlined the words twice.
The Chancellor's Visit
The following week, a new guest arrived: Chancellor Weiss, a German emissary with the weary eyes of a man who had seen too many negotiations collapse. He came under the pretense of courtesy, but his true purpose quickly became clear.
During the reception, Stefan observed Weiss's probing glances at the children, at the guarded exchanges between adults. Finally, Weiss approached Fabio.
"Your son," he remarked, in a voice too loud for discretion, "speaks with curious precision. Too curious for his years."
Fabio stiffened. "He is precocious, nothing more."
"Perhaps," Weiss replied, though his eyes lingered on Stefan. "But in politics, precocity can be more dangerous than ignorance."
Stefan felt the weight of the man's gaze. In that instant, he understood: his game was no longer hidden.
The Hidden Lesson
Days passed, and visits to the estate slowed. Some families grew cautious, withdrawing their children. Others sent them eagerly, sensing something worth learning in Stefan's strange council.
The Silent Parliament continued, but Stefan altered it subtly. He introduced lessons disguised as stories — tales of kingdoms that collapsed when leaders chased wealth instead of trust, of alliances broken by vanity, of victories won by patience.
The children listened, absorbed, repeated. Stefan no longer needed to press them; they carried his teachings like seeds scattered into foreign soil.
Yet each night, he reminded himself: words are blades. Once loosed, they cut in ways even he could not predict.
A Father's Reckoning
One evening, Fabio summoned Stefan privately. The study smelled of tobacco and dust, its shelves heavy with unread reports.
"Stefan," Fabio began, his tone strained, "they are watching you now. Men who measure every gesture, every syllable. Do you know what they see?"
Stefan met his gaze calmly. "A child, perhaps. Or something they cannot name."
Fabio's jaw tightened. "They see a threat they cannot control. And threats invite destruction."
For the first time, Stefan sensed fear in his father — not of politics, not of enemies abroad, but of him.
He answered softly, "Then perhaps they should learn to see an ally instead."
Fabio stared at him for a long moment, then turned away, muttering, "God help us all."
The Man in the Shadows
That night, as Stefan walked the corridor back to his chamber, he felt it again — the prickle of unseen eyes. He turned, and for an instant, the intruder stood at the far end, half-hidden in shadow.
"Why do you follow me?" Stefan demanded, his voice low but steady.
The man tilted his head, expression unreadable. Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he replied:
"Because you are no longer playing, little one. And games like yours have toppled empires."
Before Stefan could answer, the man slipped into darkness, leaving only silence.
Resolve
Sleep eluded Stefan. He sat at his desk, candlelight flickering across his determined face.
He wrote with sharp strokes:
I am not drift. I am not accident. I am design.
Beneath it, he drew the circle once more — the emblem of unity. But this time, he added cracks along its edges, reminders of fragility.
Then he whispered aloud, as though binding the words to the air:
"No matter who watches, no matter who fears me — I will not stop. Because if even children can learn order, then adults must relearn it. And if they refuse, I will teach their children until the world belongs to us."
The flame sputtered, casting long shadows against the wall. In them, Stefan saw not a boy, but the faint outline of the figure he was becoming: a leader hidden in plain sight, shaping tomorrow with words today.
And though unease curled in his chest, Stefan felt only one truth burning brighter than fear:
The Parliament may be silent, but its echoes are not.