“Wait,” Avalel could just manage to utter. He stares at Ipela, yet within that aged, crumpled face, there lies an earnest expression, which only serves to make him more unnerved.

“Tell me, Avalel, who are you?” Ipela asks.

“I am Avalel, son of Faresoenn…” Avalel begins matter-of-factly, but soon stops, the words of Murab and Ipela reaching into his mind. Just who… am I?

He should’ve been sure. Although he was raised by only his Dad and in a backward village, he was happy. He never dared to venture to the Outside, so the village was the world he knew. He almost never questioned anything in the world, yet here he is, in a foreign city unknown to him just a few months ago, facing an old lady who had brought them to that city, questioning his own past. Just how far had he come from that little village, being an innocent, naive child, and seeing the shedding of blood for the first time?

“You never asked yourself these questions, did you?” Ipela softly speaks.

Avalel is silent. His eyes look at the ground, averting the gaze of Ipela, losing what confidence he had.

“Do you know your mother’s name?” Ipela adds, “Maybe even what she looked like?”

He feels a lump in his chest, a sudden realization that he doesn’t even know who his mother is. “No, I don’t.” It had never occurred to him, this obvious truth… Why don’t I remember anything about my mother? Who even is my mother?

“To be honest, Avalel,” Ipela says, “I know little to nothing about you or Kavlina. You two just appeared back then, injured and disheveled, the Anapadeia by your side. To have a father named Faresoenn is already quite strange, not to mention you don’t know about the identity of your own mother. So I ask again, Avalel: who are you?”

What does she want? “I am Avalel, son of Faresoenn, sixteen years of age,” he speaks in monotony, unsure about every word he utters, “I was born in a forest on the sixteenth day of the eighth month, west of those mountains, where there was a small village. I lived a peaceful life, helping Dad with chores and going to school where I learned how to read and write…”

As time went on, Avalel finds himself revealing more and more, yet at the same time, his voice becomes more unsure, dimming until it is barely even audible. Yet Ipela still listens, nodding like an attentive child to every sentence he speaks. Meanwhile, Oriyun just stands nearby, his face expressionless as he quietly listens to Avalel.

“... And here I am, in Thille, fighting as a soldier, and living under the protection of you, Ms. Ipela,” he finishes. For some unknown reason, he feels his head is dizzy, and his vision blurs for a moment. Just what does she want?

“I see,” Ipela finally responds, as if she had already known every word that came out of Avalel’s mouth, “A young boy, sixteen years of age, yet born just a month before Stasibel’s death… how strange for Faresoenn to have a son born at such a time.”

“Doctor Murab had already told me that,” Avalel remarks.

“Yet, every time I look at you,” Ipela says gently, “You remind me of a younger Stasibel, when he was more energetic and optimistic. You lack the optimism of Faresoenn, but you emanate the purity of Macrera. You lack Stasibel’s farsight, but you display the compassion he once held. But most importantly, you are naïve now, but I sense… that you eventually will understand the cruelty of this world and will change, as Stasibel did when he took up the mantle of the King of Achien.”

“What do you mean?” Certainly she doesn’t mean…

“Perhaps I should teach you a lesson on social cues,” Ipela smiles, “Call this a speculation, a guess, or whatever you like from an old woman like me, but I think…”

No, please don’t say it… Avalel stares in horror.

“Yes, I think you might very well be the child of Stasibel and Macrera.”

For a moment, Avalel’s world turns black, as if he had suddenly fainted. He feels a sense of nausea, and in sudden exhaustion, he collapses into his chair, his entire body weak and unresponsive, as if his entire nervous system is cut. He stares blankly at the ceiling, his mouth gaping wide in shock. The entire world seems to blur around him as it fades and mixes into a cauldron of colors. Within all this chaos, a single bright spot, like a star, shines from the center, rapidly filling his sight with a blinding white before cooling and shrinking into a silver ball or orb. Through the slightly transparent silver, a glow of red and blue emanates forth, like the roaring waves in an ocean, yet also like the ripple of water in a small pond. Just like the gem in the Anapadeia.

Ipela sighs. “This might be too much for him,” she regrets, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told him my thoughts, Oriyun?”

“No, that was the correct decision, Ms. Ipela. It is better to tell him than to have this lingering suspicion inside your mind for too long,” Oriyun responds.

“Ms. Ipela,” Avalel mumbles as he slowly comes to his senses, “Why? Why would you think so? Couldn’t it be a coincidence?”

“So it’s a coincidence that your birth happened to be almost one month before Nasition’s coup, a coincidence that your ‘father’s name is Faresoenn, claiming to be the former captain of the guard, a coincidence that you happen to be in the possession of the Anapadeia?”

Avalel is completely silent, defeated as he slouches back. His entire world seems to be breaking apart, the likely revelation a whirlwind inside his mind. Just who… am I? he asks himself again.

“It’s just a guess,” Ipela hurriedly says, attempting to wake Avalel from his shock, “Don’t treat it so seriously just yet.”

“But if that is true… then why?”

“You’re still very confused, aren’t you, Avalel?”

“…Yes,” Avalel admits, “This city, this community, this war, this world… Why was I sheltered from all this? Why would I be raised in such an isolated place?”

“Only Faresoenn would know,” Ipela sighs, “He brought too many mysteries with him to the grave, as Stasibel did. But many of us are sick of this unending war, and they just want to retreat into an isolated peace, distancing themselves from the chaos around them.”

“No, this still can’t be true,” Avalel denies again, desperately scraping for some explanation, “I was born just one month before Stasibel’s death. It should’ve been impossible for me to live if I was truly that child. If there is really such a child, it is not me. My existence in the village is no more special than a boy living in Thille for the entirety of his life.”

“Avalel, calm down and think,” Ipela suggests, “It is more than likely that I am wrong, but what if it’s true? Slow down your thoughts, quietly look inside, and ask yourself, ‘Is this possible?’ I trust that you will be able to find out for yourself.”

Avalel raises his gaze to the ceiling once more. Dad, what do you say? Am I truly your son?

“Well, I have confused you for too long,” Ipela concludes, “If you want, you can leave now. I’m sure you would like to return to your home as soon as possible.” With a nod, Oriyun hands over the cases of belongings to Avalel and directs him to the door.

“Ms. Ipela,” Avalel declares as he walks toward the door, “I am no son of Stasibel. I am only Avalel, son of Faresoenn.” With that, he drags the numerous cases out into the cold, and promptly shuts the door, leaving just a peaceful silence inside the home of Ipela.

“He is like Stasibel, isn’t he?” Ipela mutters to herself before taking another sip of the now-cooled water.

Avalel opens the door to the dorm, the inside empty of any liveliness, in contrast to the apparently festive mood outside. Oh, right, tonight’s the Eve, but they’re still not back from their mission. Setting aside the larger cases, he opens the slim case, and as expected, the Anapadeia glows in excitement, its blade a rare orange hue to the usual silver. Taking it out, he begins twirling the sword, familiarizing himself again to the touch of a weapon.

Although he had only paused training for several days, he feels his arms not as fluid, his fingers not as nimble. Finally, in slight frustration, he stands up, slashing at the air in rapid strokes, like a crazed artist on his canvas, until, out of breath, he falls back onto the comforts of his mattress.

Yet even after this distraction, he cannot block out the words spoken from Ipela earlier. Maybe the child looks like you, Avalel.

He shudders. Why is it that everything I had taken for granted is falling apart? His village where he grew up, the simple society where he was raised in, even the father who nurtured him to become who he is… They just all seem to be smashed like glass.

When he left the village with Kavlina, it was to flee from those soldiers who sought to kill them, yet here they are, fighting and killing those very same soldiers. He tries to put up a brave front for his companions, yet the scenes from the forest and Lazairu still haunt his mind, a gruesome reminder of his hidden insanity, unleashed by the Anapadeia. The father whom he wholly trusted and admired may have been lying to him this entire time, replaced with some figure he had only read about in the journals.

He shakes his head. No. As Ms. Ipela said, it’s all just speculation. I can’t just throw away my past because of a guess.

Or is it?

That sickening voice. The one who “guided” him to kill so many, the one who can control his body like a puppet, the one voice he did not want to hear.

Leave me alone, Avalel hisses.

Ah, young one, shying away from your problems again? The voice now seems to be much more gentle, almost feminine.

I don’t need you here.

You sounded like the girl, Kavlina, just then, on edge and hostile. But don’t worry. I am merely here to give answers. Now, whether you believe in them, it’s up to you.

There seems to be something different about the voice. The words are soft and comforting, yet there is some unexplainable strangeness, like a hidden pin in a cushion.

Aren’t you curious, Avalel? the voice continues, Curious of your own heritage?

No. Leave me.

That would be a lie, wouldn’t it? Deep down, you want to find out the truth, even if it is painful to bear.

I do not…

Let’s look at a scene, shall we?

Avalel’s vision suddenly blurs and changes until a scene of a grand room is shown. What did it do this time? Although the room is about as large as Avalel’s old home itself, under the near-blinding lights he can only see a gigantic bed and a crib beside it, with a small crowd surrounding the bed. On the bed is a beautiful woman, her features elegant and her loose amber hair like waves, while to her side is a man dressed nearly entirely in white, smiling and looking at the woman. In her arms lay a small baby, wrapped in soft blankets. The baby did not cry or even wail. In fact, the entire room is filled with silence, as if the entry of new life isn’t something worth celebrating.

“He’s a handsome boy, isn’t he?” the mother finally speaks, yet Avalel could sense sadness from her tone.

“Yes, a handsome one indeed,” the man agrees, “What do you think, Faresoenn?”

Just then, a familiar figure steps out from the crowd, his wide smile all too obvious. Dad?

Without saying a word, he reaches a finger onto the baby’s arm and begins tickling him. To everyone’s surprise, the baby giggles, kicking his infant legs around. Finally, Faresoenn steps back with a grin. “Not only handsome, but quite funny too.”

“It’s a shame Nasition couldn’t come,” the mother laments, “He would’ve had some fun with the child as well.”

“He’s probably busy,” the man dismisses, “He can always play with the child later. Well, Macrera, do you have any ideas for his name?”

“I was thinking of ‘Alaiel’, based on the word ‘elegance’.”

“That’s a suitable name,” the man nods, although their faces are disappointed when the baby gives no response.

“I just had an idea,” Faresoenn pipes up, “How about we call him ‘Avalel’?”

“Based on the word ‘joy’?” the man asks.

“Of course,” Faresoenn replies cheerfully, “All babies bring joy to their parents, even if a certain couple isn’t showing a lot of emotion. Don’t you like this name, little Avalel?” He tickles the baby once again, and in response, the cute giggles from the baby again reaches into the ears of the crowd.

“There, the baby likes this name!” Faresoenn exclaims.

“Stasibel, I do think the name Avalel sounds more ‘fun’ than Alaiel,” the woman laughs.

“Fine, then,” the man chuckles, “The child’s laugh decides it. Would you like to do the honors, Faresoenn?”

“Of course,” Faresoenn says as the crowd begins to organize themselves until they are all facing the woman directly.

“I hereby declare,” Faresoenn proclaims, “that Avalel nai Stasibel, son of King Stasibel and Queen Makrera of Achien, is born on the sixteenth day of the eighth month, in the thousandth year of the Achien Age. May he be blessed, and may the rays of the Elyfesta forever shine on him and his family.”

A roar of applause and cheers erupt from the crowd. In the storm of congratulations, the woman cradles the baby in her arms, staring at him with her dark eyes.

“You’re beautiful, Avalel,” she whispers as she kisses the baby’s forehead.

That is enough for you to see, the voice says as Avalel finds himself back in the dorm. Unfortunately for you, visions of the past cannot be fabricated.

Avalel is completely still, his eyes still staring at where the baby was. This shouldn’t be, this can’t be, this couldn’t be… The realization hitting him, as if it’s throwing him towards the ground, quickly numbs his entire body. He collapses onto the mattress, completely in defeat as tears fall uncontrollably from his eyes. As much as he wishes that was a lie, he can’t refute it any more. What began as a speculation… turns out to be fact.

What now?