63. Love Notes
The Madrid manor hummed with a quiet sorrow, its marble floors catching the dawn’s golden light like tears frozen in time. Caos, the crowned flame of football, stood at the threshold, his six-foot frame taut with the weight of departure. His seven abs, carved by Deus Machina Pain, gleamed under his fitted shirt, a testament to the chaos that forged him. The U17 World Cup trophy still echoed in his veins—30 goals, a record etched in Qatar’s desert sands. But now, Iceland called, a land of fire and ice to match the storm in his soul. Keyla, Michaela, and Zeraphina stood before him, their eyes glistening, hearts trembling like leaves before a gale.
Caos’s gaze softened, his Birmingham accent raw. “This ain’t goodbye, my little girls. From a peon, I became Chaos—through hardship, rejection, the lot. You’ve seen the blood on my boots, the nights I broke.” His voice cracked, betraying the god he’d become. Keyla, in her green maid’s skirt, clutched his arm, her warmth a fleeting anchor. Michaela, usually draped in curves that turned heads, wore simple pajamas, her vulnerability stark. Zeraphina, the towering empress, stood silent, her Nordic eyes a storm of pride and pain.
“I’ll call,” Caos whispered, his throat tight. “This separation’s a living hell, but I beg you, don’t make it worse.” Michaela surged forward, her lips brushing his cheek in a kiss that jolted him like a missed penalty. He froze, her softness a contrast to her usual fire, her pajamas a quiet rebellion against her glamorous norm. “We’ll know when you land,” she murmured, stepping back, her voice thick. “We’ve got our ways, and something special waits for you.” Keyla nodded, tears spilling, while Zeraphina’s gaze promised unspoken vows.
Caos turned to his suitcases, each packed with the weight of his past—his mother’s absence, Vesta’s departure, Maat’s shadow, Léonor’s spark. The manor’s jasmine-scented air clung to him as he moved toward the garage, his Louis Vuitton football tucked under his arm. Iceland loomed, a land where volcanoes roared and skies danced, a stage for his next conquest. But as he pushed open the garage door, the air shifted, heavy with an unseen pulse. A shadow flickered in the dim light, and there, on the concrete, sat a sleek, black box, unadorned save for a single word carved in silver: Ouranos.
His heart thudded, King’s suspense crawling up his spine. Was this the maids’ “something special”? Or Maat’s taunt, a dagger from Barcelona’s faltering prince? He knelt, fingers tracing the word, and the box sprang open, revealing a football unlike any other—obsidian, pulsing with a faint, cosmic glow. It hummed, alive, as if forged in the heart of a star. Caos’s breath caught, Tolkien’s mythic grandeur flooding his mind. This was no mere ball; it was a relic of his chaos, a challenge from the heavens.
He stepped onto the garage’s open floor, the ball at his feet. Instinct took over, his pain a forge, his love a flame. He dribbled, boots blurring, the ball a comet in his control. The garage walls seemed to dissolve, Madrid’s skyline fading as he hit 200 km/h, a speed that shattered his own record. The ball gleamed, mirage-like, weaving through imagined defenders with an Elastico Chop and a Nebula Shift. Sparks flew where it struck concrete, a symphony of chaos. Was this the maids’ gift, a test of his godhood? Or a call from Iceland’s untamed heart?
The manor trembled, as if Ouranos itself watched. Caos stopped, chest heaving, the ball still at his feet. Keyla’s voice echoed in his mind: “We’ll call when you land.” Léonor’s text—amor mio, burn them all—burned brighter. Maat’s shadow loomed, but Caos was no peon now. He was a titan, ready to dance with Iceland’s volcanoes, to carve his myth in glaciers and stars.
He slung his suitcase over his shoulder, the obsidian ball in hand, and stepped toward the waiting car. The world would quake. Chaos was coming.
"I would love to call you as well, baby girl. Anyway, I need to pack all things." Says Caos packing all his suitcases to get to Iceland. However, there is something they did not expect to get anything from the garage and then dribble at a speed of 200 k h.
To be continued….