Future's

The Hernanz estate loomed grandly atop the rolling hills of Auroralis, its towering arches and expansive grounds a symbol of the family's long-standing wealth and influence. But within its gilded walls, tension brewed—a tension that had persisted since the day Arion walked away.

Nicholas Hernanz stood in his study, gazing out over the landscaped gardens that stretched beyond the estate. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. To those who knew him, this stance was all too familiar; it was the look of a man weighing the future of an empire.

Behind him, the heavy oak doors creaked open, and Dale Hernanz stepped inside. His footsteps were measured, hesitant even, as though he were unsure if he truly wanted to hear what his father had summoned him for.

"You're late," Nicholas said without turning, his voice a mixture of authority and quiet disappointment.

Dale straightened. "Apologies, Father. I came as soon as I could."

Nicholas finally turned, his sharp, gray eyes boring into his youngest son. Where Arion had always exuded defiance, Dale embodied compliance.

"Do you know why you're here?" Nicholas asked, stepping toward the ornate desk at the center of the room. He didn't sit; the moment was too grave for such informality.

Dale swallowed hard but nodded. "It's about Arion, isn't it?"

"Partly," Nicholas admitted, his tone clipped. "Your brother made his decision the day he aligned himself with those... gutter rats. He chose disgrace over duty, chaos over family. He's gone."

The words landed heavily in the room, but Dale said nothing. He had heard this refrain before, yet it never lost its weight.

Nicholas leaned against the desk, his expression softening—if only slightly. "And now, Dale, the burden falls to you. You are the last true son of this family."

"True son?" Dale asked, his brow furrowing.

Nicholas waved a hand dismissively. "Do not misunderstand me. Arion is still of my blood, but his actions have rendered him irrelevant. You, Dale, are the heir now. The future of the Hernanz name depends on you."

The room fell silent. Dale felt the full force of his father's expectations settle on his shoulders, heavy and unyielding.

"And the Kalosa?" Dale ventured cautiously. "Their return—what does it mean for us?"

Nicholas's expression darkened. "It means war." He stepped closer, his voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "The Senate is divided, and the royal forces are paralyzed. But make no mistake—the Kalosa's return threatens everything we've built. And we, the Hernanz family, must be ready to fight."

"Fight how?" Dale asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nicholas placed a hand on Dale's shoulder, his grip firm. "By any means necessary. We will fortify our alliances, expand our influence, and, when the time comes, crush anyone who dares to threaten our legacy."

Dale hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "And Arion?"

Nicholas's jaw tightened. "Forget him. Whatever loyalty you think you owe him, bury it. He made his choice. From this day forward, you focus on what matters—this family, this legacy."

Dale nodded slowly, though his mind churned with conflicting emotions. "I understand, Father."

"Good," Nicholas said, his tone final. He returned to the window, staring out at the horizon as though he could see the battles to come. "Prepare yourself, Dale. The world is changing, and only the strong will survive."

As Dale left the study, the weight of his father's words pressed down on him like a storm cloud. For better or worse, he was now the Hernanz family's last hope. But in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder: Was there still a place for his brother in the future his father envisioned?

---

The sprawling chambers of the Royal Army's headquarters were a stark contrast to the Hernanz estate. Built more for function than grandeur, its cold stone walls and high ceilings bore the echoes of decades of military command. It was here that Brandon's father, Deputy Oliver Wilder, found himself standing before General Henrick Tarvos.

Henrick sat at a long wooden table, his presence commanding even in stillness. His uniform was pristine, his silver hair cropped close to his head, and his eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce through every facade. Around him, maps of Hallinos spread across the table, dotted with strategic markers and notes.

Deputy Wilder shifted uneasily. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the weight of his son's death and the growing threat of the Kalosa evident in his furrowed brow.

"Speak your piece, Deputy," Henrick said, his voice calm but edged with authority.

Oliver stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. "General, with all due respect, we need to take action against the Kalosa. Their presence in Auroralis is undeniable, and their activities have already led to the deaths of innocent people—including my son."

Henrick raised an eyebrow but said nothing, prompting Oliver to continue.

"I've seen what they're capable of," Oliver pressed, his voice filled with urgency. "This isn't just another rogue criminal faction. The Kalosa thrives on chaos, and if we don't stamp them out now, they'll tear the city apart."

Henrick leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. "And what exactly would you have me do, Deputy? Mobilize the entire Royal Army? Turn Auroralis into a warzone? You know as well as I do that such a response would cause more harm than good."

Oliver frowned, frustration evident in his voice. "Then what? Are we supposed to just sit back and watch as they grow stronger? General, I've lost my son to these monsters. How many more lives have to be ruined before we act?"

Henrick's expression softened, though only slightly. "I understand your grief, Oliver. Truly, I do. But the Royal Army operates on evidence, not emotion. And right now, we don't have enough to warrant a full-scale operation. A few whispers, a dead journalist, and a traumatized boy's account are not enough to justify open conflict."

Oliver's fists clenched. "Phil wasn't just some traumatized boy. He saw things—things that prove the Kalosa is back. And the journalist—she was silenced because she was onto something!"

Henrick sighed, rising to his feet. His towering figure made Oliver feel small, but the deputy refused to back down.

"You're asking me to deploy soldiers into a city of civilians based on conjecture," Henrick said firmly. "Do you understand the political fallout if we're wrong? The Senate would have my head, and yours would follow shortly after."

"I don't care about politics!" Oliver snapped. "I care about protecting this city, this nation. If we don't act now, we'll regret it."

Henrick stared at him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Finally, he placed a hand on Oliver's shoulder.

"I know you mean well," the general said, his tone gentler now. "But the Royal Army cannot act recklessly. What I can do is increase surveillance and assign more resources to gather intelligence on the Kalosa. Once we have concrete proof, I promise you, we'll strike with the full force of the army."

Oliver shook his head, his shoulders slumping. "And how many more will die while we wait?"

Henrick didn't answer. Instead, he returned to his chair, signaling that the conversation was over.

As Oliver turned to leave, his heart heavy with frustration and grief, Henrick's voice stopped him.

"Oliver," the general called.

The deputy paused, glancing over his shoulder.

"Be careful where your grief takes you," Henrick said, his tone a warning. "It's a dangerous road, and it rarely leads to justice."

Oliver said nothing as he walked out of the chamber, the echoes of his footsteps mingling with the weight of Henrick's words. But in his heart, he knew one thing for certain: He couldn't wait for the Royal Army to act. If they wouldn't stop the Kalosa,he would find a way.

---

Logan adjusted the strap of his backpack as he stepped into the McCallister household, greeted by the usual whirlwind of chaos. Jessie, the bubbly three-year-old, ran to greet him with her stuffed bear in tow.

"Logan!" she squealed, wrapping her tiny arms around his legs.

"Hey, Jess," Logan said, managing a smile as he ruffled her hair. "Where are your brothers?"

"In there!" Jessie pointed to the living room, where Ronan was shouting at Aiden over their latest video game.

Logan sighed. Babysitting wasn't glamorous, but it was better than staying home and dealing with his dad. This job gave him the little independence he needed, even if it wasn't exactly a dream gig.

He walked into the living room to find Ronan, the eleven-year-old, dominating the controller, while Aiden, ten, sulked beside him. "Knock it off, Ronan. You're not going to break the TV, are you?" Logan said, dropping his bag by the couch.

"He wont let me play" Aiden sayed angry

Logan rolled his eyes. "Just let him finish his game. You can have the next turn."

Jessie, content to watch her brothers argue, curled up on the couch with her bear. Logan began picking up stray toys from the floor when something caught his eye—a faint glint coming from the direction of Mr. McCallister's office. The door, usually locked tight, was slightly ajar.

That's strange, Logan thought.

He glanced at the kids to make sure they were occupied, then slowly approached the office, his curiosity getting the best of him.

Inside, the room was meticulously organized, with bookshelves lining the walls and a polished oak desk in the center. But what caught Logan's eye was the cabinet in the corner, its door slightly open.

No way...

He hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the living room. The kids were still absorbed in their game, their shouts filling the air. Taking a deep breath, Logan opened the cabinet door wider.

His heart skipped a beat. Inside was a small arsenal—several handguns, a shotgun, and even a box of ammunition. Alongside them were neatly labeled folders and maps, all marked with a strange insignia he didn't recognize.

"What is this?" Logan muttered under his breath as he reached for one of the folders.

The papers inside were filled with codes, encrypted messages, and surveillance photos of people Logan didn't recognize. But the more he flipped through them, the more uneasy he felt. These weren't the kinds of things a businessman would have.

One document, in particular, stood out—a list of names, with dates and locations next to each one. Logan's eyes widened as he spotted something familiar: Kalosa. He remembered Oliver's explanation earlier that week about the Kalosa, a dangerous and shadowy organization.

Could Mr. McCallister be connected to them?

Suddenly, a loud crash from the living room jolted Logan out of his thoughts. He quickly shoved the papers back into the folder, closed the cabinet, and rushed out, making sure to shut the office door behind him.

Back in the living room, Jessie was crying over a spilled juice box while Ronan and Aiden bickered over who was to blame. Ronan, stood defiantly, barely looking apologetic. Aiden, on the other hand, looked like he might explode.

Logan sighed, kneeling down to clean up the mess.

But his mind was elsewhere. The office, the weapons, the papers—it didn't add up.

What are you hiding, Mr. McCallister? Logan thought grimly as he glanced back toward the office door.