Striker of The Gods 147. Caos vs Sofia

The Voice That Refused the Crown

The confrontation did not happen in the palace and it would never happen in those situation. Heaven was trembling on that day, and the skies knew what was to spark in a few minutes. Caos Looked at the place. Sothing was burning him from the inside.

It happened three nights later, in the neutral ground of a private charity gala at the Royal Opera House, and everything was to change the panorama. the one place where football, royalty, and politics were forced to share the sa marble floors under crystal chandeliers. Reality made its presence, and hate was there.

Caos had not planned to attend. Everyone was unaware of his damnation. But when the invitation ntioned that both princesses would be present, sothing colder than any singular storm pulled him there. He knew what he had to do: to crush the event.

He arrived in a simple black suit, no tie, violet eyes burning beneath the lights and the very essence of existence was following his back. The room fell into a stunned hush as he entered. Caras flashed. In doing so, life beca heavy for everyone present. Whispers rippled like wind before thunder. Sothing broke the hour of noise. Darkness descended upon everyone.

Sofía stood near the grand staircase, surrounded by dignitaries, wearing a silver gown that made her look every inch the future queen that we can have. In that sense, we changed the ideal of what it ans to know. She was mid-monologue voice smooth, practiced, carrying just far enough to be overheard by the right ears. At least, this was to be known by everyone.

Sofía (smiling graciously to the circle around her): …which is why my sister’s sacrifice moves us all so deeply. Choosing duty over personal happiness is the truest mark of royalty. You'll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn't an you're gonna fail at everything... Leonor can find better options. Spain needs stability now more than ever. No more distractions. No more storms. Only order, tradition, and a clear line of succession that puts the nation first. I have always been ready to serve in whatever capacity—

The words died in her throat and then sothing was to be there. Silence ca after that. The storm was THERE.

Caos had cut through the crowd like a blade through silk and spilled blood on hate. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that the dignitaries instinctively stepped back. The air between them crackled with violet tension. The day has co.

Caos (voice low, calm, and devastatingly clear): Enough.

The single word sliced through the entire hall. Conversations died. Even the string quartet faltered.

Sofía’s perfect smile froze.

Caos (continuing, eyes locked on hers, every word carved from the sa fire that had scored 430 goals): You speak of sacrifice like you invented it. Like you weren’t recording yourself in the dark, smiling at the thought of your sister stepping aside so you could finally wear the crown you’ve been asuring for years. (stepping closer, voice dropping but carrying to every corner) You call a storm. A distraction. A violet-eyed chaos that threatens your precious order. I finally understood what true love ant...love ant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be. But I have given this country more in two seasons than your entire bloodline has given in decades. I have bled on pitches so your people could forget their pain for ninety minutes. And you… you stand here polishing your ambition while your sister bleeds in silence. You must understand that I am not ant to be played with. I know who I am. What you think I am is nothing in comparison to how great I can be.

Sofía’s composure cracked for the first ti in public. A flicker of real anger, real fear, flashed across her face.

Sofía (trying to regain control, voice tight): You forget yourself, footballer. You are not such a man. Anyway, we should change it in different ways. This is not your pitch—

Caos (cutting her off again, sharper this ti): No. You forget yourself, Princess. Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, sothing helpless that wants our love. You hide behind duty and tradition while plotting against your own blood. You smile for the caras and whisper about stability, but the only thing you’re stable about is your hunger for the throne. (leans in slightly, voice dropping to sothing almost gentle but lethal) Leonor chose Spain tonight because she believes in sothing bigger than herself. You want Spain because you believe you’re bigger than everyone else. There’s a difference. You will never be like, not even in a million years. You shall perish, trying. That is to say that you do not really love your sister.

The entire hall was silent. Phones were recording. The world was watching live.

Sofía’s hands trembled at her sides, but she lifted her chin, clinging to royal poise.

Sofía: You have no right to speak to this way.

Caos (stepping back, voice carrying one final ti across the stunned room): I have every right. Because while you were counting crowns in the dark, your sister was brave enough to stand on the Bernabéu and break her own heart in front of eighty thousand people. So keep your throne, Sofía. Polish it. Wear it. But know this — the day you sit on it, you will always rember that a man who scores goals for a living looked you in the eyes and called your ambition exactly what it is.

He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.

The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea.

Behind him, Sofía stood frozen on the staircase, her perfect mask shattered in front of the entire nation. For the first ti, the quiet sister’s hunger had been dragged into the light.

And sowhere in the royal box at the Bernabéu the following week, Leonor watched Caos score his 415th goal of the season with tears in her eyes and a heart that felt both freer and more imprisoned than ever.

The season marched on.

The goals kept falling like violet rain.

But the real war — the one between sisters, between love and legacy, between storm and crown had only just begun.

To be continued…