"Long live the new republic!" chanted the crowd in unison, their voices merging into a singular roar that seemed to shake the very ground beneath us. The chant echoed across the square, swelling with fervor, fueled by the promise of something new—something better.
I watched this nation's first proclaimed chancellor stare at himself in the mirror for an hour. His eyes were hard, as if searching for something within his own reflection, something he wasn't quite sure he possessed. Every few minutes, he'd fidget with his tie, pulling it loose and retightening it, trying and failing to make it sit perfectly.
It was almost pitiful, watching a man who had once stormed the front lines now struggling against a piece of silk. An old warhorse like him stumbling over civilian clothes was to be expected, but he would have to learn—he had to adapt. War was a different beast, simpler, more direct. This was something else entirely.
We had fought side by side in the civil war for six long years. We bled, we lost comrades, we forged alliances in the smoke and grit of battle. Now, we were here, victorious. But deep down, I couldn't help but wonder if we had really changed anything. Power, as I knew it, had simply shifted hands. We had knocked a few pieces off the board, reworded the rules—but the game itself remained the same.
Power was like an invisible spirit, hovering over everything—ever-present, always waiting. It chose its champions not by their nobility but by their ambition and cunning. And it always demanded a price. A different one each time, but a price nonetheless. Today, it had chosen this man, the one standing in front of me, fiddling with his tie and staring into the mirror as if he could see into the future.
I prayed the chancellor would realize the truth sooner rather than later—that he was no longer a revolutionary, no longer a symbol of defiance. He was a governor now, a ruler of the people, and he had to learn to play that role with skill and tact. It was a different kind of battle, one fought with rhetoric and compromise rather than rifles and blood. It required grace and deception in equal measure, a careful hand that would guide and manipulate, all while appearing benevolent.
Perhaps I backed the wrong horse. Only time will tell.
"Sir, the crowd has become very fiery. Now would be the best time to begin," I reminded him, my voice deliberately neutral as I stepped closer. The roar of the crowd outside had reached a fevered pitch. They were hungry to see the man who had promised them freedom.
He let out a long sigh, his broad shoulders visibly relaxing, the weight of the moment settling upon him. "Six years," he murmured, almost to himself. "Six years of fighting, putting our lives on the line. But here we are. We finally did it."
"Yes, we did." I allowed a faint smile to curl my lips as I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "And now we have the people's support by the bullhorns. This is our chance to finally set things in stone, Chancellor." My eyes bore into his reflection in the mirror, my voice taking on a firmer tone. "Have confidence, but remember—you absolutely cannot afford to mess this up."
He chuckled, a short, gruff sound that betrayed his unease. "Oh ye of little faith…" He finished with his tie, smoothing it one last time before turning away from the mirror.
He walked out of the room, his boots thudding against the polished wooden floor, and we followed behind him like shadows. As soon as we stepped outside, we were enveloped in a wave of sound—thunderous applause, cheers, and the deafening chants of "Long live the new republic!" The faces of the crowd blurred together into a sea of fervent, expectant expressions. To them, the man beside me was more than just a leader; he was a legend, a hero who had delivered them from the clutches of oppression.
The chancellor paused at the podium, waving to the people with a broad smile, basking in their adulation. He let it stretch for a full minute, letting the moment sink in, the crowd's energy bolstering him before he began his speech.
"Six years ago," he began, his voice strong and resonant, carrying over the sea of eager faces. "You. Me. Every man, woman, and child were victims of absolute tyranny under the monarchy. But one day, I had a dream—a dream considered radical for its time. A dream for our great nation of Valendia to be prosperous, and most importantly, free. A nation governed strictly by the people, for the people..."
Blah, blah, blah. Did you really think I would make you listen to all that? I hope you weren't actually buying into that rubbish idealism.
A nation by the people, for the people? When half our population cannot even read? When they had lived their entire lives with someone else's boot on their necks? It was laughable. I had to suppress the urge to smirk.
Take a closer look at the crowd. What do you see?
Gratitude? Relief? Devotion? No. What I see is confusion, desperation, and blind faith. These people were not here for the cause. They didn't even understand the cause. They were here for the man, the hero—the one who had cast down the king and promised them freedom. They saw him as a godsend, a fairy tale come to life, a man of action who had somehow made the impossible happen. And yes, I admire him too. But that doesn't mean I will swallow his lofty ideals as easily as they have.
If this crowd truly understood what this so-called democracy meant, they would be revolting in disgust. They would see that the chains had only been loosened, not broken, and that they would be made to wear them still, albeit of their own making.
But don't worry—that will never happen. Not while I am here to guide them, to ensure that this delicate illusion remains intact.
Have I rambled too much? Forgive me, I was merely passing the time. It's not the speech that matters, nor the roaring crowd, nor even the promise of change. What matters to me are those photographers, positioned eagerly across the square, their cameras capturing every angle of this historic moment. The chancellor, standing tall, victorious, the embodiment of a new era—and beside him, there I was, standing not behind him, but at his side.
It was deliberate, of course. One simple trick, positioning myself just so, ensuring the cameras saw me beside the beloved chancellor. Not some forgotten subordinate trailing behind, but a partner, a figure in my own right. The symbolism was powerful, and it would linger. Coincidentally, our similar hair tones were a nice touch—it made me look almost like a younger version of him. A natural successor, perhaps.
With that subtle move, I've solidified my place in the history books for future generations to see. Today, I'm a shadow. But in the days to come, I will be far more than that. I will be in many more pages before this story is through.
Long live our glorious new republic.