Power. One that gives, but takes away much more. One that enables, but disables much more. One that creates, but destroys much more.

Avalel is merely the product of such power. If there is anything that his accursed life has taught him, it is the essentiality of power itself. It is merely because of his lack of power that has brought him to that miserable state in the village, being tossed and manipulated by those pawns of the Confederation. He was weak. His concern for others had hindered his growth. His wish to protect them from harm had instead led to catastrophe after catastrophe, eventually just reaching the same conclusion: the loss of all he once held dear to the unforgiving war.

Physical power, or even the power of magic, is not enough for him. He desires more, like a starving child digging for the crumbs of the wealthy, yet with pride and confidence like that of a conqueror always thirsting for more. He desires the power of a leader, of one who can command the commons, being not only the master of his own fate, but of the world. Just as Elethien once had.

He is no longer the hunted, but the hunter. Nasition, the one who has brought him to his current state, is no longer his greatest fear, but only an obstacle to his destined greatness. Perhaps he should even thank that Tanalien for forcing his hand, killing Tarak. At the cost of just one life, he has lost and found himself all in the same moment, no longer shackled by anyone. Tarak is dead. Kavlina is likely dead. There is no one to pull him back to his former pitiful state now.

He confidently strolls out of the military headquarters, sufficiently stunning the cowardly officers, leaving Rasu speechless. None of them have the heart or passion to even fight. They have already assumed the worst, that the end has come. Simply pathetic. It isn’t hard to imagine the sentiments of the government, perhaps even trembling at his sudden return.

The people, already crowding around the headquarters, follow him, so eager to get close yet keeping a distance away from him. To them, the New Rule’s young savior offers far more potential than the civilian government, bogged down in their bureaucracy, yet they also are nervous, his narrow gaze instilling a sense of unease into them. Still, they find themselves somehow attracted to him, his steps leading them to his destination: the Grand Hall itself.

To him, it is a great procession to his declaration of power. To the Assembly, it is frightening. He must thank Rasu, really. The idea of a savior, pushed forth to rally the people for the faction in a desperate time, has only idolized and benefitted Avalel himself. The petty rivalries of corrupt leaders only lead to their demise, so conveniently giving the first steps to power which he so desires. As he marches on, the hypnotic red glare of the Anapadeia up high like a torch, more civilians join in the crowd, the streets rapidly becoming filled with the collective stupidity of the people, serving only to give him even more confidence.

A small squad of soldiers appear in front of Avalel and the crowd at an intersection, their rifles shakily aimed at his chest. There is a sense of hesitation, further heightened as Avalel slows down, taking deliberate steps towards the soldiers, the Anapadeia surrounded, infused with energy. They are clearly reluctant slaves sent by the government, too afraid to even face him, the one who can so easily destroy them all.

“Fear not,” he calls out, his voice angelic yet oddly sinister, a mixture of elegance and crude arrogance. “Do you not recognize the figure who is the New Rule’s savior, the hope bestowed upon you all? Why are you holding your weapons as if you are facing a great enemy?” He knows they recognize him, his burning gaze etching themselves into the soldier’s mind.

“S-Stand back!” a soldier shouts. “B-By the order of the President, do not advance another step!”

“Or what?” Avalel approaches closer, his shadow creeping closer to the soldier’s boots. “You won’t dare to fire at the savior you’ve been waiting for months, won’t you?”

The soldier tries to retreat, but instead finds himself stuck in place, his legs refusing to obey the command of his brain. The others lower their rifles, too afraid and weak to even aim them at Avalel.

“Come instead, join me,” Avalel offers, extending his left hand. “Let us work together, building a revitalized New Rule instead of the dying faction you are forced to sacrifice yourself to.” His voice is soft yet demanding, imploring yet commanding the soldiers to act to his wishes. The distance between Avalel and the soldiers is now virtually nonexistent, his shadow enveloping, clouding the soldiers’ stunned bodies.

For some reason, the soldiers feel their sense of fear subsiding as the shadow climbs up themselves, choking, twisting, squeezing every ounce of their independent emotions out of them until they only feel… peace. The feeling… It’s blissful.

They drop their rifles, instead unsheathing their knives. In a simple motion, they slice the emblem on their armor, the metal easily scraping the paint away from the armor. Slowly, they make their way to the front ranks, their minds as if cleansed and purified, finally seeing clearly the savior in front of them.

“March, march with me!” Avalel’s firm command leads them forward, and eventually, the people are essentially marching in step, the noises of their feet rumbling, echoing off the building. Thousands of civilians join him like magnets attracted to each other, not even knowing where they are heading, but only following Avalel’s lead.

This body is capable of great influence even on its own, he realizes.

The Grand Hall lies before them, the same intimidating building he was so awed by many months ago. The large doors are shut, clearly unwelcome to their presence, hundreds of soldiers, likely a large portion of the city’s original garrison, stand between them and the heart of the New Rule itself. The same unwillingness to fight shows in their messy formation, the front row even struggling to hold their rifles steady. Despite their deadly armaments, they are like a ragtag group of lost bandits, cornered by the invincible power of the conqueror.

“Look at this pathetic state of an army,” Avalel ridicules, pressing towards the entrance. “It is no surprise that the New Rule is on its last gasp. Have your generals not taught you to stand your ground? What is this? An unorganized mob?”

A pulse reverberates in the soldiers’ bodies. They all feel it. Avalel’s commanding eyes bearing upon them, his sharp gaze stabbing through their bodies. They sense it. The instinctive feeling to submit to his unparalleled power, to give up their independence to be slaves under the absolute authority of him. Yet they also feel a sort of admiration or adoration, maybe even idolization, towards him. They see the same face from the propaganda they’ve received for months, the same grim determination displayed so clearly before their eyes. Compared to the weak Assembly hunkering down in the Hall, Avalel is far more powerful, far more able to lead them, leading them as their savior.

They, too, have fallen firmly in Avalel’s grasp.

“Step aside,” Avalel orders. “The fate of your life, the New Rule’s life, is in my hands.”

The soldiers part, leaving the entrance now unguarded and virtually unprotected. Slowly, Avalels walks forward, making his way between the soldiers until there is just an arm’s length of distance between him and the entrance.

“May the Anapadeia guide the people to a new light and a new world,” he says as he swings the Anapadeia against the door.

The steel crumbles, melting as they sizzle on the floor, fragments rolling down the long staircase. Avalel marches in, the people soon clogging up the entrance, slowly filing in and filling the space inside, forcing the officials to shift further and further to the center, where the President stands, concealing his panic.

The Grand Hall is the same as it is before, the air still quite intimidating and serious. The President stands at the center, his formerly authoritative eyes now shirking away in fear. Almost a year ago, a pair of young refugees were presented here, requested by Ipela to serve in the military even as underaged soldiers. Now, only one of them return, but not as a weak child, but as the one who will topple them with his newfound, boundless charisma.

There is a strange silence as the officials form a ring, yet quickly pushing in as to not become the outermost layer. The people, surprisingly, are civil, only occupying the seats. Avalel towers above nearly everyone, standing atop the staircase, the Anapadeia glowing excitedly for what is to come.

“Respected individuals of the Assembly,” he says, mirroring Ipela’s greeting from so long ago. “Or shall I say, the cowardly, corrupt, self-inflated egos so fragile before my eyes.”

The officials twitch in anger at such an accusation, but are lost at words against him. They realize, they know that their former position of power has been suddenly snatched away by the same person they had so carelessly promoted to be their savior, the one individual now back to rob of their own identities and statuses.

“I am Avalel,” he continues, stating his name in much emphasis and attention. “The same Avalel you all have scorned when I had first arrived, the same soldier within the military which you had praised so effortlessly but paid no effort to actually find me, the same child which holds more responsibility than the supposed advanced, intelligent minds of the Assembly.” He raises his voice, the Anapadeia poised, aimed at their position. “The Avalel who is here to save the New Rule from its ruin.”

“Have you come only to usurp us, to claim a faction built for so many years under our leadership?” the President asks, finally speaking up with his booming voice.

“Hilarious that you would say such a thing. Your ‘leadership’ was merely as a figurehead. You held great power, but you are not the one who has made the New Rule as it is. In my days in the military, I have realized that it is not the political leaders, in their comfortable chairs and gourmet meals, who are fighting for the New Rule, but the common soldier, recruited from the people, led by often discredited officers. They are the ones who truly fight for the survival of us all, but only the top brass receive the credit. Usurp? No, no. I am only here to rebuild the New Rule from the brink of destruction, away from the hands of corrupt politicians who know nothing about the common good.”

“And you think that you, a young boy not yet seventeen years of age, is qualified to lead the entire faction of millions of people?”

“It is not whether I am qualified or not, it is the people’s decision whether I am qualified or not. And I ask the same of you. Do you think that you are even qualified, now that the people and the military have departed from your feeble command? And now… Even your own Assembly?” Avalel points at the officials, still shifting back and forth. With the exception of a certain Ipela, calmly standing amongst the chaos.

“As ones who have taken their vows to serve this government, they are bound by their own words. Unless they are dishonorable, they will not defect to a foolish villain as you are.”

“And why not test this theory?” Avalel’s confidence radiates throughout the entire Hall, without even a hint of hesitation. “For the ones who are willing to defect, I will retain their positions before I find a suitable replacement. For the ones still stubbornly siding with this man, I will simply… dispose of them.” He makes no effort to move, but immediately, the aura of the Hall is replaced with one of immense terror, the Assembly feeling a chill down their spines.

Slightly surprisingly, the officials stand their ground, their feet rooted to the ground. They are unarmed, and to Avalel, they are only civilians, unimportant, if not detrimental to the New Rule. It is not that they are bound by anything, but that they do not wish to be the first, the one singled out for being a traitor to the faction itself. For them, face and dignity triumphs all, even their own lives.

“I see no harm in a slight change of government.” That familiar voice, so sly in the moment yet retaining a sense of dignity, projects above the murmurs of the officials. Ipela steps out, calmly making her way to Avalel, her aged face hiding a subtle smile. Unlike the others, her own figure is also radiating confidence, as if she is proud of such a development from Avalel. “Welcome back, Avalel.”

The officials are shocked. Ipela, of all people, defecting to Avalel? Her wisdom and age nudging her to submit to a young boy? And to retain such dignity even when betraying the President himself, a blatant act of treason?

But that is already beyond their minds. For the wisest of them all to defect, they have long lost all sense of resistance. One by one, they depart from the center, instead staying by Avalel’s side. Soon, there is none standing by the President’s side, the Assembly’s so-called face and dignity all thrown away in favor for the change of the tide.

“Ms. Ipela, why…” The President is shaking, sensing his own power slipping from his grasp.

“Avalel is a better choice, after all,” Ipela smiles.

“Who is the foolish one now?” Avalel smirks, the Anapadeia reaching for the President.

It is so fast. As a pool of blood splatters onto the ground, the President falls, his heart cleanly pierced through. His mouth is open as if trying to utter some final word, but no sound comes out, only the thump of a now-deceased body, lifeless before the eyes of hundreds.

At the end, Avalel realizes, betrayal is only a natural tool for people to gain or preserve their power. Power, power will be only thing that drives one forward.