Avalel sits quietly in the library, staring fixated at the screen in front of him. Although the presence of Murab, sitting just a few seats behind, is slightly unsettling, it is merely a nuisance in his explorations in the seemingly boring journals of Stasibel. The journal, with the exception of a few entries, is wordy and seems to be more a report than a personal diary. Often Avalel would come across military terms that he barely recognizes from the cadet training, the complicated terms simply boring him. Yet, there is this mysterious feeling, the feeling that he must read on for the simple reason of understanding this last king of Achien known as Stasibel.

Still, as he reads on, only questions emerge in his mind. Why would Nasition betray his lord and king? What would our world be like, had Stasibel fully implemented his reforms? Why mention the names Nasition and Faresoenn even more than his own family? As the questions flood him, he can only clutch his head in increasing confusion.

“I see you’re almost done with the journal entries of the year 999, Avalel,” Murab speaks, suddenly appearing behind him, “Are you still confused?”

“Very confused,” Avalel replies, “The relationship between Stasibel, Nasition, and Faresoenn are almost like equals, not of ruler and guard. Why is that?”

“Well, it’s the trust between these three men,” Murab explains, “Again, this is just a rumor I’ve heard, but apparently most of Stasibel’s policies were from the advice of those two. I remember towards the end, he even toyed with the idea of a democratic government, one that we strive for today. Ironically for us, that idea was actually suggested by our bitter enemy and betrayer Nasition.”

“Why did Nasition kill him then, if Stasibel was so willing to follow his advice?”

“I honestly do not know. It was a risky move to assassinate Stasibel just as the monarchy was beginning to regain popularity among the people. Yet somehow he managed to succeed and even brought many to his side through his charisma.”

Nasition… what a mysterious person, Avalel thinks.

“Some of his propaganda even reached faraway places and settled within the minds of the people. One of the few things we agree with the Confederation was the fact that the monarchy had become corrupt, and therefore, its demise was inevitable. But in my years in the Core Lands, I saw the gradual improvement of life under Stasibel, and I wonder: what would our world be like had the monarchy stayed in place instead of this fractured world with numerous warring factions?”

He’s thinking just like me. “Do you wish that Stasibel was never assassinated, Doctor?” Avalel suddenly asks.

“W-well,” Murab stutters, “That was quite sudden. Why ask?”

“You seem to see the monarchy quite positively. Maybe the world might’ve been a better place had the monarchy stayed in place?” To his surprise, a few faces turn to his direction, staring at him with a strange and slightly disgusted look.

Murab reaches closer and his voice drops to a whisper. “Avalel,” he hushes, “Very few of us here have even a neutral perspective of the monarchy. You must be careful with your words.”

“What about…”

“But since you asked me, I’ll answer. To be frank, I didn’t want Stasibel to be assassinated. I’d rather have a more stable and safe world. Too many have died for their ideologies, born through the turbulence of the last century. It would be better had a monarchy, limited by a democratic government, stayed, instead of what we see now.”

“You’re confusing me, Doctor.”

“Just remember: I prefer the monarchy over this chaos. That’s all you need to know.”

“Alright.” What’s with this serious tone from the doctor?

“Don’t tell anyone. The fact that I prefer the monarchy might get me killed. Thille isn’t as safe as you might think.”

A threat of death? “Uh… Doctor?”

“You’ll understand later,” Murab resumes his louder voice, “But it’s now time to return to the hospital. You’re being discharged today, remember?”

“Ah, yes!” Just in time for the new year celebration! Avalel realizes in excitement as he quickly stands up. However, as he turns around, he bumps into a familiar-faced man, and he staggers back in pain, his vision spinning for several moments.

“Oriyun!” he cries as he regains his senses, “What brings you here today? I thought you need to run some errands for Ms. Ipela?”

“Ms. Ipela would like to talk to you,” Oriyun, dressed neatly, answers, “It won’t be long.”

“But I need to pack up my belongings at the hospital first!”

“Oh, you mean these?” Oriyun raises his arms, revealing three cases of varying size. Calmly, he opens one of them, and inside are Avalel’s clothing, neatly folded and organized, leaving not one empty space. “I expected you would ask this, so I took the liberty of packing your things first.”

“Wait, what about the sword?” Avalel asks softly.

“Don’t worry,” Oriyun smiles as he points to a slim, long case, “It’s here.”

“Oriyun, always the reliable one,” Murab compliments, “No wonder Ms. Ipela speaks so highly of you.”

“She did?” Oriyun’s eyes light up in anticipation.

“Of course. To be honest, I would like an assistant, no, secretary, as helpful as you.”

“You don’t mind if Avalel comes under our supervision, Doctor?”

“Of course not. Please give Ms. Ipela my regards as well.”

“Don’t worry, I will. Well, we’ll be going then. Follow me, Avalel.” As they depart from the library, Avalel waves at Murab, while Murab smiles in response.

The boy sure has a strong will, being able to bear the psychological burden of that disaster in addition to the death of his father, Murab thinks as Avalel and Oriyun disappear from his sight. War is cruel, isn’t it? Taking the lives of many heroes and corrupting many more.

Avalel follows closely behind Oriyun, dragging a case along with him as they walk with long strides. Although Oriyun is shorter than Avalel, his proud and upright posture seems to make him far taller, to the point that Avalel feels as if Oriyun’s shadow is looming over him. He sure takes pride in his job as secretary.

“We’re here,” Oriyun announces as they stand in front of an unappealing apartment carved into the stone. Elegantly, he opens the door, and inside sits Ipela, reclining on a cushioned chair.

“Ah, Avalel, come take a seat,” Ipela beckons, “I hope my humble home isn’t too small. Oriyun, please prepare some snacks for us.”

“As you wish, Ms. Ipela,” Oriyun replies obediently.

“I expected a more grand home since you’re such an important person, Ms. Ipela,” Avalel remarks, “but this also feels very comfortable.”

“I don’t need that much space for just one person,” Ipela replies as she takes a sip of warm water.

“Oriyun doesn’t live here?” Avalel asks as he begins eating the snacks, “Also, these cracker-like snacks are tasty.”

“No, I have my own small home,” Oriyun answers unconcernedly, “And these snacks you’re eating are pohrus, a native food from the Southeast. It’s usually made with salted fish skin, but in the war, we have to resort to flour and some other seasonings to create a similar taste.”

“You’ve done a good job for the pohrus today, Oriyun,” Ipela praises, “It’s the closest to the original taste you’ve done.”

“Thank you, Ms. Ipela,” Oriyun smiles with satisfaction.

“Anyway, what do you want to talk about today, Ms. Ipela?” Avalel asks earnestly, “It’s strange to just invite only me over for some snacks, not to mention this is my first time here.”

“Well, as you thought, I did not merely invite you over for some food and small talk,” Ipela’s expression turns serious, “How was your reading of Stasibel’s journals, archived nowhere else but the library of Thille?”

“How did you know?” Avalel inquires.

“Forgive me for this, but I have sent Oriyun to follow you during your days of hospitalization.”

“Nevermind that. Well, I am quite confused in many parts. It’s not just the writing style, but I don’t understand why Nasition would choose to betray his king, even as he was held in great respect by Stasibel.”

“Well,” Ipela ponders for a moment, “How about I tell you a story first? It might help you understand the message behind Stasibel’s words. After all, I have read those journals before.”

“I don’t know how this will help, but please go ahead.”

Ipela takes a deep breath. “Some time ago, there was this very close group of friends,” she begins, “A son of a noble, two orphan boys, and an ordinary peasant girl. They ran around the open fields, playing with each other every day. The noble boy was a quiet one, yet he commanded the respect of his friends, and became their leader. He would lead them to adventures, chasing off insects and fighting imaginary monsters. It was a fun time indeed.”

What does this have to do with the journals? Avalel wonders.

“Then, disaster struck. First, the great mansion and lands that the boy’s family held became constantly targeted by disgruntled peasants. Then, the boy’s three elder brothers died from various accidents and illnesses. Finally, the boy’s father caught an illness and died as well, leaving all the property to the scared, insecure boy. Although the father had been a cruel man, the boy still loved him. During this time, only his closest friends supported him. The two orphans began to fight back the riots, first with only their words and feeble fists, then gradually expanding until many people, swayed by their mission and undying loyalty to their friend, joined too and protected the mansion from further harm. Meanwhile, the peasant girl supported the three boys, nursing them when they were injured, and comforting the noble boy when he mourned over his family’s deaths. She was a resourceful girl too, using her mother to help her spread the word to help her friends. Although the quiet noble boy had been cold towards many of his age, he was touched when one day the peasant girl, accompanied by one of her friends, brought a large crowd of girls and boys alike to support the noble boy, many of whom the boy had never seen before.”

“Slowly, the four friends began to reclaim the mansion and its lands, but just as they were about to succeed, misfortune again fell upon them. In an accident, the peasant girl was killed while running an errand for the noble boy. One of the orphans, who had loved that girl, was shattered and was determined that it was the fault of the noble boy. He confronted the boy, but to his surprise, the noble boy, now holding much power over the mansion, nearly had him killed as well, for the noble boy too was suffering from guilt and did not want any reminders. It was only through the work of the other orphan that they managed to calm down. Yet from this point onwards, the orphan had a deep grudge against the noble boy, and he began dreaming of the mansion being used for unfortunate children like him instead of the personal use for the nobles.”

“I still don’t understand, Ms. Ipela,” Avalel blurts, “What does this have to do with the journals?”

“Let Ms. Ipela finish,” Oriyun says, “It’ll take some time, but it will be clear once Ms. Ipela finishes her tale.”

Just how many times did he listen to this? “I’m sorry, Ms. Ipela. Please continue.”

Ipela smiles, “It’s alright to have some questions. Now, as I was saying, the orphan boy now dreamed of the mansion being used for unfortunate children like him. Although on the surface he feigned loyalty to his friends, behind their backs he began to conspire against them. In fact, he confessed his treachery to the dead girl’s mother, asking her to help him avenge her daughter and fulfill ‘their dream’. Alas, the mother refused, but promised to keep his conspiracy a secret. This proved to be the fatal blow, as a short time later, the orphan led a group of his fellow conspirators and killed the noble boy, renewing the chaos once again. The whereabouts of the other orphan became unknown, and it was assumed that he was also killed. The girl’s mother, unable to bear her guilt as a bystander, retreated to a remote place far away from the mansion before joining the same group of disgruntled peasants who once were her enemies, fighting against the treacherous orphan. From then on the last memory of this tale would live on, hoping for the day when at last the mansion would return to the noble family, and if that is impossible, then destroy the mansion altogether.”

Avalel leans back to his chair, his expression the same as before, yet within that expression of seeming confusion, he begins to piece together Ipela’s story, searching inside his head for the bits and pieces he remembers from the journal. It feels like a fantasy tale, but something is familiar. “Ms. Ipela,” he finally asks, “The characters… they weren’t actually young children, were they?”

“No.”

“The mansion, the noble boy, the orphans, the peasant girl… they were all mentioned in the journals, weren’t they?”

“Except for the peasant girl, yes. If you have been paying attention, you should know who the noble boy is by this point.”

Stasibel, Nasition, Faresoenn… “So it was them. Then, why was the peasant girl not mentioned?”

“The surviving journals were all written after her death. None of the surviving three wanted to reminisce about that tragic day.”

Avalel’s mind suddenly clicks. “How did you know all this?” he questions, his eyes staring intently at Ipela, “You couldn’t have known all this from hearsay alone. Even Doctor Murab, who lived in what he called the ‘Core Lands’, based most of what he told me from rumors.”

“Avalel…”

“You told me the girl’s mother joined the group of ‘disgruntled peasants’ and hoped for the mansion to return to the noble family. Those ‘disgruntled peasants’ are merely the New Rule, while the ‘mansion’ was the Achien Empire, and you… you are that mother, aren’t you, the only one who remembers all these events from so long ago? The one who wishes for the Achien Empire to be restored.”

“Avalel, that’s enough,” Oriyun warns, “You are putting Ms. Ipela in danger.”

“She might be killed if she’s revealed to be supporting the monarchy, isn’t she? Don’t worry, the Doctor had already reminded me of the dangers of that.”

“Avalel,” Ipela confesses, “You are correct. Norai, my daughter, was killed many years ago, devastating us all and setting the stage for the permanent enmity between Stasibel and Nasition. Nasition loved my daughter, and in his blind rage and guilt, he blamed Stasibel, who had ordered Norai to deliver supplies to an ally on that day. Stasibel’s reaction only made it worse. Yet I believed in Stasibel’s innocence. He had only wished to restore the glory of the Empire, and the death of Norai was just as devastating to him as to Nasition, Faresoenn, or me.”

“Why did you want to restore the Empire? Isn’t the Empire gone for sixteen years already?”

“The determined look in Stasibel’s eyes, the joy Norai had when she was alongside her friends… you could say it’s a sense of mission. Even after so long, to this day, I wish for the eventual restoration of the Achien monarchy, even if there is just a sliver of possibility.”

“Ms. Ipela, isn’t it impossible? There’s no way the monarchy, or the Empire, can be restored now.”

“It is extremely difficult, but it isn’t impossible. Avalel, you should have read from the journals that Stasibel and his wife Macrera were expecting a child just before he was killed.”

“You’re saying there’s a possibility that Stasibel has a child who’s still alive?”

“Well, the entire royal family was supposedly killed when Nasition seized power.”

“Then the child should’ve been dead for years already!”

“But,” she smiles, “If that child had survived, he, or she, would be about sixteen years of age now. Maybe the hair is blond or brown, similar to his parents. Maybe the hands are rough, yet filled with a sort of tenderness. Maybe the figure is tall and slim, the brown, almost amber eyes filled with the same youthfulness that the Stasibel I knew had.”

She gazes into Avalel, as if her aged eyes are piercing into his mind. “Maybe the child looks just like you, Avalel.”