As Arin followed his grandfather out of their temporary residence and toward the European Command Center, a quiet sense of unease settled in his chest.

  Not fear.

  Expectation.

  Up until now, whenever they had dealings with the military, doors opened for them. Escorts appeared. Clearances were already prepared. Orders had weight. But today was different. This time, they were walking in unannounced, asking to meet one of the most powerful men in the world.

  Marshal Herman.

  Arin glanced at his grandfather’s back as Karl Sonneberg walked with steady, unhurried steps, hands clasped behind him as if they were heading to a park rather than the nerve center of Europe’s combined military forces.

  Are we really just… walking in? Arin wondered.

  He doubted it would be that simple.

  Still, he didn’t say anything. Bursting his grandfather’s bubble would achieve nothing, and besides—Karl had lived through enough wars and regimes to know what he was doing.

  Probably.

  The European Command Center soon rose before them, an imposing structure that radiated authority. Built in less than six months, it was a testament to humanity’s desperation and ingenuity. The design blended old and new: stone facades reminiscent of pre-industrial castles, not as fortresses but as symbols, merged seamlessly with steel, glass, and modern infrastructure.

  Castles had stopped being practical centuries ago.

  Now, they were statements.

  And this one declared power.

  Arin couldn’t deny it—standing before the massive doors, flanked by banners of the European Union and the United Army, the building looked impressive enough to make even hardened soldiers straighten their backs.

  As they stepped inside, polished marble floors reflected the overhead lights. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and fresh paper. Order. Control. Bureaucracy.

  At the reception desk stood a young woman with neat hair and a carefully practiced smile. She looked up as they approached, posture straightening immediately.

  “Hello, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, her voice gentle and professional.

  Arin noted the tone instantly.

  Praise me, his mind supplied dryly.

  “Yes,” Karl said calmly. “I would like to meet Marshal Herman. We have important information.”

  The receptionist’s smile didn’t falter—but something else did.

  Just for a second.

  A flicker passed through her eyes. Surprise. Unease. Calculation.

  There it is, Arin thought. This isn’t going to be fun.

  She recovered quickly, but the damage was done. Arin had already seen the gears turning. She didn’t hate them—no, worse. She already wanted them gone.

  “I… I can check if that’s possible,” she said. “May I ask what unit you’re assigned to?”

  Her tone was polite, but the words carried a silent hope.

  Please be a nobody.

  “Of course,” Karl replied.

  He pulled out his identification card and placed it on the counter.

  “Karl Sonneberg. Special unit assigned to Legion Twenty-Three.”

  The receptionist’s breath caught.

  Her fingers trembled slightly as she took the card, eyes scanning it once—then twice.

  It was real.

  That realization robbed her of options.

  “I—I will ask,” she said quickly. “Please wait here.”

  She disappeared up the stairs leading deeper into the building, toward the Marshal’s offices.

  Five minutes passed.

  Then a voice echoed down the stairwell.

  Loud.

  Irritated.

  “Ria, I told you the Marshal is busy and not seeing anyone today!”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The footsteps were heavy, deliberate. A man descended the stairs with the kind of confidence that came not from competence, but from insulation—someone who had never been properly challenged.

  “And even if he were,” the man continued sharply, “it certainly wouldn’t be for some unimportant nobody who doesn’t know their place.”

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  Josh.

  His perfectly pressed uniform was adorned with insignia that screamed administration. His posture radiated self-importance, and the look he gave them all but dared them to respond.

  Ah. A pencil pusher, Arin thought, irritation flaring instantly. Of course.

  Josh’s gaze flicked between Karl and Arin, already dismissing them.

  “Now,” he said coldly, “tell me what ridiculous reason you believe justifies interrupting the Marshal’s schedule.”

  Karl didn’t answer.

  Instead, he turned his attention back to the receptionist, ignoring Josh entirely.

  “Ria, was it?” Karl said kindly. “If Marshal Herman is unavailable, then please notify General Rian. Just tell him Karl Sonneberg wishes to speak with him.”

  The receptionist went pale.

  Josh stiffened.

  Being ignored was not something he handled well.

  “You—!” Josh snapped, his authority challenged openly now. “Leave before I call the guards and have you arrested!”

  Arin felt a familiar itch behind his eyes.

  Why do these cockroaches keep crawling out of the walls?

  He remembered being younger, following his father to city halls and mayoral offices. Every time, there had been staff members who felt too big for their station—people who bullied, delayed, extorted.

  Some of them had pushed too far.

  Some of them had been found the next day with an arrow through their heart.

  The killers were never found.

  Arin hadn’t seen that world directly.

  But he understood it.

  “Well?” Josh demanded, face reddening. “Did you hear me?”

  “Grandpa,” Arin asked calmly, eyes never leaving Josh. “Why do people like this keep appearing?”

  Karl smiled faintly.

  “That’s a good question,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t know. They get drunk on power they don’t actually possess.”

  Josh’s face contorted with rage.

  “Enough!” he shouted. “Guards! Arrest these people for insubordination!”

  Arin exhaled slowly.

  “Grandpa,” he asked, stepping forward, “can I kill him?”

  The receptionist let out a strangled sound.

  “I’m fairly certain obstructing messengers with critical military intelligence qualifies for the death penalty,” Arin continued casually. “And he doesn’t have authority over us.”

  Josh took an involuntary step back.

  Karl chuckled.

  “True,” he said. “But killing him would complicate things.”

  Arin sighed.

  The situation teetered on the brink of disaster.

  Then—

  The doors behind them opened.

  A woman stepped in, silver hair tied neatly, eyes sharp with intelligence and quiet authority.

  Sofie.

  She had been waiting.

  She took in the scene in a single glance: the trembling receptionist, the furious administrator, the amused grandfather, and the grandson one breath away from violence.

  “…Could you not kill one of Grandpa’s staff?” she said tiredly. “That would be a hassle.”

  Josh froze.

  His face drained of color.

  “I promise,” Sofie added calmly, “he’ll get what he deserves.”

  Karl’s smile widened.

  Arin stepped back.