In the corner of a shop, a bell rings to the irregular rhythm of the wind. The Elyfesta is shining as usual, its orange and yellow rays piercing the area once occupied by artificial lights and covered by a concrete ceiling. Nearby, a pile of shattered glass reflects the light into an array of different colors, spraying it to every corner of the establishment despite dust from the fallen bricks accumulating on their surfaces. Near where the shop’s door used to be, a plush doll lay still on the ground, its stomach pierced by a piece of metal.

The sounds of footsteps rattle the once-paved road, kicking up the pebbles and pieces of bricks. The caw of birds screech overhead, giving a semblance of life in the otherwise dead town. Smoke billows out from piles of rubble, once houses of relative stature. Whatever sounds that once thrived here are no more, replaced with an eerie stillness.

“The sixteenth day of the eighth month,” an officer mutters as he scribbles on his notepad, his rifle strapped to his back, his sword dangling by his side like an ornament. Pinned to the left side of his chest is a nameplate, the title ‘Klarsten’ engraved into the metal. “President, that’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

The tall young man beside him continues at the same monotonous pace, his expression as stoic as before. “Yes,” he answers, his mouth barely even arching up for a smile. “My twenty-first.”

Klarsten fixes his nameplate, smiling as he dusts off the bits of dirt. “It’s been an honor serving you these two years, President.”

“As an aide-de-camp, sadly,” the man says as he turns briefly towards Klarsten. “And please, ‘Avalel’ will suffice. I’ve told you many times, haven’t I?”

“As you wish, President Avalel,” Klarsten chuckles.

The two of them, along with a small entourage behind, stroll the streets of what once was the small town of Pos, a minor settlement hastily fortified by the retreating Confederation troops before being razed to the ground. They parade the town without any shouts or cheers, being greeted only occasionally by some of their comrades. Pos never held any special significance to them, being only a stubborn enemy outpost that has resisted their advances for so long. The opposing soldiers have all been liquidated, the weapons all either captured or destroyed. At last, after more than four years of liberating their old lands, the Pass of Elethien is in sight.

Avalel is something of a genius. From being their savior at the Battle of the Pass four, almost five years ago, the individual had grown into something of a gem for the New Rule. Klarsten himself still vaguely remembers the day when Avalel led the troops to victory at the Battle of Thille. Being a boy fifteen years of age back then, only a little more than a year younger than Avalel, to hear the news that the savior of the New Rule has personally led and defeated the massive army of the Confederation caused nothing less than admiration from him. And to be the savior’s aide-de-camp… He is certainly living the dreams of him and his peers.

And yet, he still doesn’t understand the mind of his President and superior. Instead of lavish celebrations after every victory, Avalel only allows the troops to hold small private gatherings. Instead of publicized events of mourning for the dead, there is only a monument erected at each site of battle, with the names of deceased soldiers carved in columns and lists. Instead of the powerful, charismatic appearance that Avalel puts on in every public speech and military meeting, he sits quietly after every day, staring into empty space as Klarsten remains patiently by his side. It’s almost as if Avalel is still seeking for something, hoping to fill whatever void he still has inside.

Sometimes, Klarsten wishes Avalel can act as one his age, one with all the impulsivity, energy, and growing in maturity.

“Klarsten,” Avalel calls.

“Y-Yes?” Klarsten responds, snapped from his thoughts.

“How long do you think it’ll take until the war is over?”

Another question on war. He sighs. “About a year or two if we keep up our momentum, at least for the Confederation.”

“How long until it’s over?”

“Pres—Avalel?” Klarsten utters in surprise. Surely he isn’t thinking of…

“My duty is to protect and save people, not just the people of the New Rule,” Avalel says. “You should know this by now.”

“T-That might take more than a decade, I’m guessing…” Klarsten mumbles hesitantly.

“A decade, at least, until the world is safe, huh…” Avalel sighs. “Alas, we can’t just rush things. Thanks, Klarsten.”

“Oh, thank you,” Klarsten replies humbly, quickly regaining composure. As he looks at Avalel, he notices his lips are still moving, trembling as if one is whispering to the wind.

The two soon arrive at a camp, set up just recently from the remains of the previous Confederation camp. Various campfires are already set up, the soldiers gathering around pots of boiling broth, tending to their minor wounds as their suits of armor are placed to the sides. It’s almost unimaginable that, just a day prior, this was the most hotly contested area of the town, their planes raining down wave after wave of bombs as company after company advanced into the scattered nooks and crannies. Now, it’s just a place of gathering, a brief respite before the next advance.

“President!” The soldiers shout spontaneously, saluting their leader, some still stuffing themselves with spoonfuls of food. Their eyes are obviously fatigued, yet they still grin passionately at Avalel, displaying their most optimistic expression.

“I hope everyone’s resting well after the hard-earned victory,” Avalel says cheerfully. Yet those same eyes remain: soulless, empty, the happiness and enthusiasm all fabricated as a mask to show the troops.

“Avalel…” Klarsten begins.

“Yes?”

“You should rest well too.”

Passing by the entire camp, they soon arrive at a larger tent, protected by several armored vehicles. Klarsten quickly steps forward, pushing open the entrance, allowing Avalel to enter. Inside, it is outfitted with only a bed, a desk, a supply box, and a few stools, not too different from the setup in other tents. It is rather strange at first sight for many, considering the Confederation and even other smaller factions have a personal base of sorts for their military commanders, nevermind the head of government. But as for Klarsten, such is already common in his years serving Avalel.

Sighing, Avalel takes a seat on a stool, placing the Anapadeia close to his side. That sword is already a common sight for Klarsten now, always seen with Avalel, the relic of the late Achien Empire instrumental to the young man’s rise to power.

“Can’t believe it’s already been so long,” Avalel mutters. “Twenty-one years of age already.”

“You’re definitely much more mature than your peers, maybe even compared to seasoned world leaders,” Klarsten compliments.

“Yes, mature…” Avalel says. “War really forces us to grow faster, doesn’t it?”

“But still, you need to take a break,” Klarsten continues. “It’s your birthday. You can afford to relax for just one day, right?”

“Perhaps.”

“We’ve fought here for over a week with you personally leading us again. The Confederation is going to attempt fortifying the pass instead. I think you can rest instead of just ‘perhaps’ take a break.”

“Alright,” Avalel relents. “If you insist.” He walks towards his bed before collapsing on it, his body lying flat on the hard mattress. For a while, he just stares at the ceiling of the tent, heaving sighs as his fingers continue to twitch in tension. His mouth is moving again, Klarsten notices, his brows knit together as his eyes dart around. His hand seems to reach for something, his fingers stretching for the ceiling before it drops back down in defeat. He wipes off the sweat condensing on his forehead, breathing heavily as if he has just exhausted himself.

“Do you need something?” Klarsten asks. It’s not the first time Avalel has been exhibiting such strange actions. From the first day he is recruited to be the President’s aide-de-camp, he has already noticed such peculiarities in Avalel’s otherwise flawless appearance. Whether it is “talking” to someone, the hallucinations Avalel sees (at least that is what Klarsten is informed of), or the bouts of emotion at no one in particular, it is certainly taking a heavy toll on the health of the young President. It’s far better suppressed now with various medications, but the episodes, sadly, do not completely fade away.

“Just something to draw or write with, please,” Avalel says.

“As you wish.” Klarsten reaches into the supply box, taking out a paper notepad with a finely-made pen, provided and requested by Avalel’s personal doctor in Thille before they had set upon their campaign. The pages are already half-filled with various doodles, scribbles, and notes with Avalel’s notorious handwriting.

“Thanks.” Holding the paper in his hand, he places the pen on a blank page, beginning a new entry. As his hand moves rapidly across the page, drawing bold strokes after strokes, Klarsten begins to see the makings of a rather feminine face, the same face occasionally seen in the margins of some pages next to some incomprehensible writing or messy scribbling.

“Her again?” he asks. “Your friend from your early days in the military?”

“Yes,” Avalel answers. “Every now and then, she haunts me in my dreams.”

It’s rare for Avalel to say something off his mind to Klarsten’s recollection. Perhaps, after two years, the reserved, protected shell that Avalel has so adamantly kept up is finally breaking?

“Maybe she’s watching over you,” Klarsten says. “At least that’s what my friends say.”

“She’s not dead,” Avalel replies quickly. “I’m sure of it. She holds a grudge against me, I believe. Her recent appearances… She’s closing in.”

“What did you—” Klarsten stops himself. He can’t ask such a question.

“No, Klarsten, continue,” Avalel requests, as if he has read Klarsten’s mind.

“A-Alright… What did you do to deserve such a grudge?” He’s prying into Avalel’s life, a private life that Avalel has been able to keep from even him, in that fragile mental condition, for two years. If some other soldier has asked that question, it won’t be a surprise if they are to be swiftly killed.

“I failed to protect them, my two dearest friends. I went back on my word… and she believes I’ve betrayed them.”

Protect. The one word Avalel has promised to the people of the New Rule ever since he took power. He must’ve once promised that to his friends as well. The breaking of a promise… Klarsten doesn’t need to imagine too deeply to guess the consequences.

“It’s a burden, isn’t it? A burden on your health and your sleep.”

“Yes, a burden which I have to bear. Every time I see her in my dreams, I remember that despite everything, I’m a free man.”

“You’ll find her. I assume she feels the same way, and maybe when you do, you’ll be able to unload your burdens. For both of you. You know, a reconciliation.” Perhaps this friend that Avalel speaks of is merely another hallucination, but Klarsten doesn’t dare to pry any further. Perhaps this friend is the only lingering obstacle left for Avalel to overcome, and if she is truly alive, then it is only reasonable for the two of them to meet each other again.

It is what he was recruited to do those years ago, after all: to understand and assist Avalel by being his closest advisor and comrade.

“A reconciliation, huh…” Avalel ponders, the pen continuing to move, the portrait becoming clearer with the facial features slowly coming into shape and detail.

“Let that be your birthday wish,” Klarsten suggests. “A personal mission as we continue your vision of ending this war.”

Avalel nods, and as the last stroke of the doodle is completed, he begins to write a single phrase to the bottom right of the page, his egregious handwriting making it just legible for Klarsten’s eyes to see.

Forgive me, Kavlina.