The golden night
This one was for Leonor.
Wherever she was watching.
Something was breaking inside.
In the royal box of the Palacio Real, Leonor sat beside her father and sister, tears streaming down her face without shame. Sofía’s face remained perfectly composed, but her hands were clenched so tightly in her lap that her nails drew blood.
Sofía (whispering to herself, smile thin and sharp): Even now he scores like he’s trying to break the world in half. (quiet, venomous) But crowns do not bend to bicycle kicks. Not even ones from thirty-nine feet.
Later that night, back in Madrid, Caos returned to the mansion alone.
The three maids waited in the garden Zeraphina, Keyla, and Michaela their eyes full of pride, sorrow, and fierce loyalty. They had watched the final together, screaming until their voices gave out.
Zeraphina stepped forward first, voice husky.
Zeraphina: Twenty-five goals. A World Cup. That chilena from thirty-nine feet… the whole planet is calling it the greatest goal ever scored. And you looked like you were scoring it straight through your own heart.
Caos said nothing. He simply walked past them and sat on the same stone bench where Leonor had once chosen Spain.
The ball rested at his feet, glowing faintly violet under the moonlight.
For the first time since the season began, the singular storm felt… tired.
Not defeated.
Just tired.
Just sad.
Just stupid simple.
Caos (whispering to the night): I won the World Cup. I scored the greatest goal the world has ever seen. And still… the only throne I ever wanted just chose duty over me. That is to say that I may not find her anymore. This is severe
Somewhere across the city, in a quiet room in the Palacio Real, Leonor watched the replays of the 39-feet chilena on loop, tears falling freely.
She had chosen the crown.
But every time the ball left Caos’s foot in that impossible leap, her heart broke a little more.
The 2032–33 season had ended in glory.
But the real war the one between love and legacy was far from over.
To be continued…