The evening sky over Brussels glowed an uneasy orange, the kind that hinted at winter yet carried the heaviness of early storms. Stefan stepped out of the Weiss villa, adjusting the scarf around his neck as he crossed the courtyard. At twelve years old, he walked with the awareness of a man twice his age—because, in truth, he was.
But even reincarnated strategists needed a moment to breathe.
Today, however, the air felt… off.
Heavy.
Loaded.
He recognized that weight.
Something had shifted.
The plan was simple: meet Lucas, Anya, and Julien at a small café near Parc de Bruxelles for evening pastries and homework. A harmless outing, the type his mother encouraged and Heinrich tolerated because "healthy social development" mattered for future political appeal.
"Don't wander far," Lena had told him before he left. "It's getting darker earlier."
He had nodded. But he was already wandering far—mentally, strategically, and now, unknowingly, into someone's crosshairs.
Stefan reached the café ten minutes early. Golden lights spilled from the windows, the smell of butter and sugar drifting into the street. Lucas waved him over energetically from a booth.
"You're early for once," Lucas said. "Did a miracle occur at the villa?"
"Krüger canceled training," Stefan replied, sliding into the seat. "He twisted his ankle."
Julien gasped dramatically. "The general of swordsmanship, defeated by a staircase?"
Anya didn't look up from her notes. "It happens. Gravity is undefeated."
Stefan smiled faintly. Normal moments like this felt strange but grounding. He cherished them more than he would ever admit.
Yet something tugged at his senses—old combat instincts whispering.
Someone was watching.
He scanned the street through the window. Nothing unusual. Just pedestrians, commuters, and a street vendor packing up churros.
But Stefan didn't believe in coincidence.
Not anymore.
Two days earlier, he had overheard Heinrich speaking in the study with Vittorio Weiss—the kind of low, clipped conversation adults tried to hide.
"Reports indicate the surveillance isn't from domestic channels," Heinrich had said.
"Foreign?" Vittorio murmured.
"Possibly. Or a private actor with state-level funding."
And then:
"A child shouldn't attract this kind of attention unless—"
Stefan had stepped away before they noticed him, but the implication lingered.
Unless what?
Unless someone recognized his potential?
Unless someone connected dots he thought invisible?
Or worse—
Unless someone knew he wasn't simply a prodigy?
Lucas shoved a small tray of pastries toward him. "You're zoning out again. Don't tell me you were strategizing over croissants."
"Not strategizing," Stefan said, though that wasn't entirely true. "Just thinking."
Julien leaned in. "Thinking about what? Revolution? Economic reform? Or how to rig tomorrow's maths competition?"
Stefan rolled his eyes. "I don't need to rig anything."
"Exactly what someone who would rig things would say," Julien declared.
Their banter continued, light and ridiculous—Julien arguing that Belgian waffles were superior to French pastries ("treason!" he insisted), Lucas attempting to explain football tactics to Anya, and Anya disproving half his explanations with brutal, quiet efficiency.
But across the street, a man sat alone on a bench—too still, too focused, pretending to read a newspaper in the dark.
Stefan's fingers tightened around his fork.
A shadow from the past flickered in his mind.
War. Surveillance. Counter-ambush fields.
This posture… he had seen it before. Many times.
He forced himself to look away.
"Stefan?" Anya said softly. "You're tense."
"Just tired," he replied automatically.
But she kept watching him—studying him the same way she studied chess openings.
She doesn't believe me.
Maybe because she notices more than the others.
On the walk to the café, Stefan had passed a billboard advertising a new Japanese electronics brand entering the European market a year earlier than he remembered.
Another deviation.
His previous life's timeline was changing—small details at first, now growing bolder.
If something as global as market expansions was shifting, then—
Historical events might follow.
That thought chilled him more than the December air.
He wasn't just trying to reshape Europe.
Europe was beginning to reshape itself around him.
Which meant unpredictable players might be stepping onto the board earlier.
He glanced again at the man with the newspaper.
A timeline shift…
Or someone reacting to Stefan's influence?
Neither option was comforting.
A dark sedan pulled up beside the café.
Stefan's breath froze.
Kessler stepped out.
The man's presence carried the weight of a storm—clean-cut, precise, quiet, the kind of quiet that made soldiers straighten their backs. He adjusted his coat, barely glancing at the café before walking toward it.
Lucas groaned. "Oh no. Parents?"
"Worse," Stefan muttered. "My grandfather's political counterpart."
Julien peeked over the booth. "Is that the German bulldog himself?"
"Kessler," Anya whispered. "Why is he here?"
Stefan knew exactly why.
The surveillance.
The tension at home.
The shifting timeline.
Kessler entered the café. The air seemed to compress around him.
"Stefan Weiss," he greeted, voice neutral but heavy. "A word."
The others exchanged wide-eyed looks.
Stefan stood calmly, though his heart beat harder than he liked. "Of course."
He followed Kessler to the entrance. The older man leaned closer.
"You have been followed," Kessler said softly. "Not by my people. Not by your family's enemies." He paused. "Someone new."
Stefan's stomach tightened.
Kessler continued, "Your movements are no longer… insignificant. Be mindful of that."
"Do my grandparents know?" Stefan asked.
"Not all of it." Kessler's eyes narrowed. "And I intend to learn why."
He stepped back, adjusting his gloves. "Stay close to home for a while. And avoid traveling alone."
Then he walked out, stiff and tense.
As Stefan returned to the table, Lucas whispered, "What did he want?"
"Nothing urgent," Stefan lied.
Anya didn't buy it. Julien didn't believe it. Lucas didn't even pretend to believe it.
But they didn't press.
Not yet.
Once Kessler's aura faded, the café returned to normal—music playing, lights warm, laughter drifting around them.
Julien tried to distract the mood by recounting the time he tried to cook pasta and nearly set his mother's curtains on fire.
"It was only a small flame!" he insisted.
Lucas deadpanned. "Julien, your father called the fire brigade."
Stefan actually laughed—a real, unguarded laugh. It eased the tension he carried like armor.
Normalcy mattered.
Even now.
Especially now.
Once Kessler's aura faded, the café returned to normal—music playing, lights warm, laughter drifting around them.
Julien tried to distract the mood by recounting the time he tried to cook pasta and nearly set his mother's curtains on fire.
"It was only a small flame!" he insisted.
Lucas deadpanned. "Julien, your father called the fire brigade."
Stefan actually laughed—a real, unguarded laugh. It eased the tension he carried like armor.
Normalcy mattered.
Even now.
Especially now.