Striker of The Gods

 The Secret That Carried Two Crowns

Three weeks after Paris. It seemed like something was shifting naturally with an unpleasant flavor that no one could ever come to understand, and the shadow of reality spread immensely. The thing is, this became transitory. Upon the same place, this perished.

Leonor stood alone in the private royal chapel of the Palacio Real, long after midnight. The candles flickered low, casting dancing shadows across ancient stone and stained glass depictions of queens who had chosen duty over desire. She wore only a simple white nightgown, one hand resting protectively over her still-flat stomach.

A chill swept through the chapel, mingling with her thoughts as she contemplated the weight of expectation that pressed upon her that no one could ever feel. She look at every wall as a reminder of her responsiblity. It felt hatred… it felt SADNESS... IT FELT EMPTY! As the last candle guttered out, she found herself reflecting on the sacrifices made for the crown, longing for a freedom that seemed forever out of reach.

No one knew.

Not her father.

Not her mother.

Not even Sofía, who watched everything with those cold, calculating eyes.

Nothing could ever come close to her feeling out of place as if it carried one singular shape of what it means to know reality. It is not everything. That is to say that she felt in her heart. She would walk around the royal palace with impatience and anger.

Only the silence and her own racing heart bore witness.

Leonor (whispering to the empty chapel, voice trembling yet fierce):

I am pregnant.

The words feel like both prayer and blasphemy when I say them. A child. Our child. Conceived on the night I told the world I had chosen Spain… and then ran straight back into the arms of the only man who has ever made me feel truly free.

The weight of this revelation pressed down on her, mingling fear with a flicker of hope. What would it mean for her future, for the kingdom, and for the love that dared to flourish in the shadows? That could become a real threat for those who dream of becoming the ally of the queen. Now, she was on the edge.

I can still feel him. The way his hands held me like I was the only real thing left in the universe. The way his violet eyes burned when he looked at me not like a princess, not like a future queen, but like I was the only throne he would ever kneel before. And now… a piece of that storm grows inside me. That is too beautiful to be real. That is to say that this could become one ideal reality in the sight of those who come to face her.

A child with chaos in its blood.

What will they say when they find out? The Cortes? My father? The sister who already smiles at the thought of me stepping aside? They will call it scandal. They will call it weakness. They will say the future Queen of Spain let herself be ruined by a footballer who scores goals like other men breathe.

But this child… this child is not ruin.

This is the most honest thing I have ever done.

I imagine him — or her — with those impossible violet eyes. Tiny feet that might one day move faster than thought. A heart that refuses to choose between love and duty because it was born from both. Will they carry the weight of two crowns? The one I chose… and the one their father built with every record he shattered?

What a burden to bear, yet what a gift to possess. In their veins will flow the legacy of passion and resilience, a blend of two worlds that might just redefine what it means to lead.

I am terrified.

Terrified that I will have to hide this. Terrified that Sofía will see this child as the final obstacle to the throne she hungers for. Terrified that I will have to choose again between the crown I swore to carry and the life I helped create with the only man I have ever truly loved.

But beneath the fear… there is something else.

Joy.

Wild, chaotic, impossible joy.

Because even if the world burns around us, even if parliaments rage and sisters scheme, this child was made in love. Not duty. Not obligation. Not politics.

In love.

In the arms of the man who once scored from thirty-nine feet just to prove the impossible was listening.

I press my hand harder against my stomach and whisper the only truth that matters tonight:

“You are wanted. You are loved. You are the most beautiful chaos your father and I could ever create. This is more than you and me. I can see the link between us. You are perfect… so PERFECT THAT I cannot stop thinkking about you. You are my only one. I really see you. I cannot take it upon myself, but I shall make you see a brighter future.”

Leonor closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

Outside the chapel, the palace slept under heavy guard.

Inside her body, a new storm was already beginning to grow — one that no crown, no parliament, and no ambitious sister would be able to silence.

Leonor (final whisper, almost smiling through the tears):

Caos… my love… we made something even you cannot outrun.The air thickened with unspoken promises and uncharted paths that the prophets would never reject or dismiss as if it were nothing. In that moment, Leonor felt a surge of strength, a fierce determination that ignited within her, pushing aside the shadows of doubt and fear. Now, this shall become one with you.

For a woman to love, she should sacrifice her life.

To be continued…