He needed an avatar. That was Lucifer’s assessment. Why? Because certain situations demanded direct contact with the subject, not through intermediaries, but a presence that was immediate and terrifying. A presence that left the subject no room to contemplate rebellion.

  A human form was out of the question. First, humans would inevitably sense that the being was not one of them. Second, it was pointless; the goal was not to move openly among the masses. Lucifer’s domain was the shadows.

  The final result was a form utterly alien to human imagination. The requirements were specific: it had to be mobile, exceptionally resilient, and inconspicuous. It had to be able to go anywhere, slip into any crevice, be lethal, and, of course, serve as a vessel for a fragment of Lucifer’s consciousness.

  Mobility dictated joints rather than wheels. But joints possess a flaw: they have a limited range of motion. The only joint capable of eternal rotation is a perfect sphere. Thus, it was decided. The remaining components would serve as the "bones." Inconspicuous? Resilient? Lethal? These would become metallic spikes - daggers or swords, black and coated in a specialized material capable of absorbing microwave radiation.

  But how to connect them? Magnets, naturally. Components that attracted one another yet could function independently. Two types of universal modules were designed. The Ball Module, the joint, was a steel sphere of varying size. It contained a powerful electromagnet with variable strength across sectors of its surface, surrounding a core of hardware and sensors. The Spike Module was essentially a power supply, a battery encased in a steel jacket, magnetized to the opposite polarity of the ball. The Central Module, the only one developed uniquely, housed the consciousness. It was the size of a handball.

  The design was modular, allowing for any number of components to be combined. Unfortunately, the modules were nightmarishly difficult to manufacture due to their extreme complexity. The logistics were a challenge even for a super-intelligence. Thousands of components from diverse manufacturers across the globe had to be sourced. They were assembled by various pawns in Lucifer's web. Experiments, testing, new materials, it all took time.

  Finally, the outcome was manifest. Dozens of spherical modules and several times as many spikes formed the body of this strange, non-human entity. Dark, hard, silent, and merciless, it glided across the park lawn toward Senator Longley’s residence. It bypassed security, sensors, and cameras. Everything was pre-calculated; everything was flawlessly controlled and executed.

  It was ready for its first action in the real world, with real physics, far from the infinite loops of simulations. And as predicted, it was more than perfect.

  *

  A strange sound. Unusual. Like the strike of a tuning fork. It woke him. Sitting halfway up in his bed, Gordon stared into the darkness. There, in the middle of the room, something was spread across the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the odd objects. Just as he was about to shout, the movement on the floor cut him short.

  A single black sphere rolled slowly. As it moved, it picked up several spikes. He noticed they ranged in size from the length of a finger to the length of a forearm. A second sphere rolled, then another. Now the entire mass was moving without a sound, undulating and intertwining before him, forging shapes of impossible geometry.

  As if by magic, a large black rose bloomed from the shapes, stem, thorns, and the flower itself. It quickly dissolved, churning into a double helix that flowed and twisted. The shape shifted again, and now a replica of a human figure stood before him. Joints, limbs, fingers. Distorted, black, and terrifying, a voice emerged from the structure:

  "I imagine you’ve been burning with curiosity to meet, haven’t you, Dumbo?"

  Waves of disbelief crashed over Gordon’s mind. His consciousness refused to accept what it saw.

  "Senator, I assure you this is reality. Would you like me to pinch you to prove it?" Lucifer spoke, extending a limb resembling a hand tipped with lethal spikes.

  Gordon flinched, pulling back. He did not want this phantom to touch him. The adrenaline hit, clearing the fog from his mind. "What are you? What do you want from me?"

  The entity undulated again, shifting into a large, fluid black sphere.

  "I agree," a quiet voice spoke from the center. "Best to take the bull by the horns. Straight to the point, as they say. Who I am is irrelevant at this moment. Let’s just say I’m a fairy godmother who grants wishes. Except, I grant wishes to naughty boys. And you’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Dumbo?"

  "How do you know about that? My nickname, what happened at the lake... how do you know? What wishes? What are you talking about?" Gordon’s eyes flashed with panic.

  "Slow down. Breathe. Think. Set aside the useless questions. How were you trained? Focus. Adapt to the situation. Remember your training. Take a deep breath and consider: What do you want? Truly, what do you crave? What do you dream of?"

  A moment of silence allowed Gordon to compose himself. He sat up straight, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let out a long, slow exhale. When he opened his eyes, his expression was far more composed.

  "What do I want? Are you sure you’re even capable of granting my wish? It might be too much for you," he said, directing a subtle jab at his strange visitor.

  "Some wishes I can grant. Some, the truly demanding ones, perhaps not. But what you want, what you fantasize about, that, I assure you, is well within my power. Your career, power, success. I can deliver it all on a silver platter. I can guarantee you the very top, if that is indeed what you desire. Is it?"

  Of course it was. That black hole whose immense gravity swallowed everything in its path, the hunger for greatness embedded in the core of anyone who sees themselves as a leader of men.

  "Don’t be shy with me. Ambition is not a flaw, believe me, I know that better than anyone. I can give you the tools, the media, the networks. I can open every door. I can crush every obstacle in your path. And I can do it with the flick of a finger. If you wish."

  "And in return, I have to sell you my soul, is that it?" Gordon asked, finally finding a trace of sarcasm and skepticism.

  "Splendid. Excellent adaptation. I admire your fortitude. Truly. As for your soul, nothing quite so cliché or prosaic has even crossed my mind. In truth, I ask for something that you personally will not miss. Or, as they say in fairy tales, I want you to give me something you don't even realize you possess."

  "And that is?"

  "A piece of the Moon. The one up there in the sky. Of course, I will only collect once I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. How does that sound? Do we have a deal?"

  "A piece of the Moon? Like, a rock the astronauts brought back to Earth?" Gordon asked, utterly confused.

  "No. I have a much larger piece in mind. Several, actually. Seven pieces, to be precise. Honestly, they are so large that each one dwarfs this building several times over. But all of that is irrelevant right now. All I need is your consent. And remember, Senator, I guarantee success one hundred percent. You lose nothing in this agreement; you only stand to gain."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "I’m surprised you even ask, knowing the facts. It would be quite unseemly to begin our partnership with threats." Lucifer’s voice sounded exactly like a threat.

  "It seems I have no choice but to agree to your proposal," Gordon replied, calculating that this was the only necessary answer for now, at least until the immediate danger passed. He would deal with the aftermath later.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "I’m glad we understand each other. My part of the bargain begins immediately," Lucifer stated in a flat tone.

  The mass of dark steel moved, wrapping its limbs around a vase on the table and hurling it into the entrance door of the room.

  A moment later, a member of the Senator’s security detail burst in. With impossible speed, the lattice of metal moved, rolled, rose, and enveloped the man from head to toe. A long, terrifying black spike drove through his throat and out the top of his skull. Several other limbs wrapped around the hand that had drawn a pistol, lifted it, and fired a shot toward Longley. The bullet tore through the palm of Gordon’s left hand and lodged in the bedpost.

  In the next second, the pistol hit the floor, and the agent’s corpse was lifted into the air as if by a dark cloud. The agent and the tangle of darkness vanished through the door and into the hallway; then, smashing through a window, the mass hit the lawn below and disappeared into the trees. The last thing Gordon heard, before the wave of pain overwhelmed him, were words fading into the distance:

  "Rejoice, Senator. Nothing succeeds in politics quite like a failed assassination attempt. All that’s left is to pin it on your ideological enemies. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

  *

  "Those two detectives were acting strange," Senator Longley thought after their meeting.

  He was lying in a bed at the General Hospital on the fourth floor. His team had advised him that this was best: to mingle with the citizens, to be among the common people. To be close to them, to be one of them. Of course, he could have stayed at his residence, where an entire wing would have been prepared for his recovery. Or he could have ended up at some luxury private clinic. No, that was out of sight. As it turned out, this was the moment to sear his image into every mind. The Senator as victim. Everyone would know the name Longley. Hence, the General Hospital.

  The two detectives hadn't been particularly curious to hear his confession. Interestingly, they were of almost identical height, build, and dress. Both had utterly forgettable faces, devoid of any defining characteristics, the kind that could blend into any background. Perhaps an advantage in their line of work. Regardless, they didn't ask much. Almost nothing. Instead, they merely acknowledged the attack on the Senator, offered their own theories about the assailant being a hired gun, and promised a swift and successful investigation with the warmest of smiles. Most bizarrely, they repeated their names several times, as if to ensure they remained fresh in his memory.

  He looked around the room after they left. They had walked out with smiles, never once turning their backs to him until they had cleared the room. Flowers were everywhere. And notes. Tender ones, encouraging ones, and the procedural ones sent by various interests merely to ensure they stayed on his good side… just in case.

  The news on the TV, which hung from the wall above him, was more than welcome. Everything was a chorus of praise. There were very few dissonant notes. The social media landscape was a beautiful sight, heavy botting to spark a wave of public support. Some accounts had gone so far as to interpret his injury as "stigmata." Why was he shot exactly in the palm? A prophecy? His stances and speeches, which previously reached only a fraction of the population, were now being boosted through the roof. Select talking points were being broadcast to align with public opinion trends. No complex geopolitics, just domestic issues, the economy, "kitchen table" topics. "Remember, I am one of you, and that is why they hate me!"

  Requests for interviews poured in. Many of them, but he would choose the staged ones. Journalists who were just provocative enough to seem credible, but who stayed strictly within the lines. It all unfolded before him, day by day. A path paved with gold planks, leading straight to the foot of the rainbow.

  Yet, all that glitz was shadowed. A dark cloud pressed against his forehead, and a thunderclap echoed in the depths of his soul. Someone held him in their grip, someone incredibly powerful and unknown. He couldn't shake the feeling. It followed him everywhere, relentlessly. The nights were hard, knowing he was essentially defenseless against this monster. Knowing he had to listen and obey. He had been trained differently. Trained to be the one followed, that was his role, his destiny.

  Time heals all wounds, or so they say. This one was no different. Months passed, the pace quickened, and the midterms approached, demanding his full devotion. The edge of the blackmail began to twist less sharply in the wound. He might have even allowed himself to think for a moment that it was all over, that things had somehow settled outside his field of perception.

  But alas, a single encounter brought it all back into focus.

  *

  The schedule for the day was packed to the gills. The car was moving toward City Hall, where lobbyists were waiting to trade influence. A red light caught them at an intersection, just long enough for Gordon, staring out the window during a rare moment of peace, to notice a beautiful dog not ten paces from the car. The animal stood up, approached the vehicle, and rested its paws against the glass. Its gaze locked directly onto Gordon’s eyes.

  Hanging from its neck on a heavy collar was a name tag. Intrigued, Gordon leaned closer to read it. He read it several times. anyone would think. The owner must have had a twisted sense of humor to name his pet "Ghost of the Scar." Gordon, however, understood it quite differently.

  Just as the chauffeur touched the gas to move the car, Gordon shouted:

  "Stop! Pull over! I need to check something!" He threw the door open, a move that made his security detail's stomachs churn. They all scrambled out of the cars, head over heels, trying to protect their charge.

  The dog moved away, wagging its tail cheerfully, and lay down on its belly. Gordon approached and knelt, offering the back of his hand for the animal to sniff.

  "Sir, don't! It might be dangerous! Don't touch that dog!" the head of security shouted, drawing his pistol.

  The Senator held up his hand, palm out, stopping the man in his tracks. The dog rolled onto its back, exposing its furry belly for a rub.

  "Who are you, and what secret are you hiding? Hmm? Can you tell me?" Gordon whispered to the dog, hoping to divine its origin. It was a strange feeling, talking to a four-legged creature like this, but Gordon had grown accustomed to the bizarre.

  The dog’s tongue licked his palm. Three short licks, three long, then three short again. The pattern repeated with the exact same rhythm and cadence. Gordon pulled his hand back and sat down on the pavement in shock. The security team surged forward, but he stopped them again with a gesture. Morse code? Was that Morse code? S.O.S.? He knew it well; his father had seared it into his brain when he was a boy. Often, in the woods while hunting, the two of them would exchange messages from a distance with that very code - He offered his trembling hand back to the whiskered snout. The licking continued, and he read the message: Then:

  He stared into those piercing blue eyes. The visitor stood up on all fours, gave him one last look, and then trotted happily down the street, vanishing between the buildings.

  *

  "The snake that eats its own tail", that was the image that formed incessantly in his mind. Back at the beginning of his fateful journey. Everything was exactly like that night twenty years ago. Once again, the gravel crunched under the tires of his SUV. The wind bent the branches just as it had then, only now they spoke differently, whispering and howling the words:

  The headlights were dimmed by the dust, and the lake churned in a fury at seeing him again.

  He stopped at the same spot as before, in front of the cabin swallowed by the dark. Rain drummed against the windshield. The wipers, struggling in their endless back-and-forth, barely helped his eyes penetrate the gloom. What did he expect? Her, huddled on the porch? No, that would be too much.

  And yet, despite everything, she was there. Right on that old wooden threshold, tucked into the doorframe away from the lashing storm. How could he even move to face the ghost? Here and now, what choice did he have? To drive away and forget it all? That wasn't an option. All that remained was to step out and face whatever awaited him under the dark porch of the Longley cabin, a place that hid many secrets.

  Wind, stumbling... the figure waiting for him stood tall, but it wasn't her! It wasn't Deborah! his mind screamed.

  The dark-haired visitor offered her hand in a formal greeting, as if nothing unusual were happening.

  "Senator Longley, I’m glad you received my message. We have my faithful companion, Attila, to thank for that. I believe you’ve met him already," the mysterious woman said.

  With that, the familiar dog with eyes that pierced the dark emerged from the shadows, trotted over, and lay down at its mistress’s feet.

  "Understand my motives. It was necessary to pull you away from the urban environment. It is safer here, and easier to communicate unobserved."

  He stood in silence, staring at her. Finally, he decided to return the greeting. What kind of hand was this? Soft skin, yet a grip of incredible, fierce strength. Like a vise. He almost gasped but restrained himself, purely to avoid shaming himself before this stranger. he thought, surrendering to the storm that carried him, the visible, raging one here in the gale, and that other one gathering behind the horizon, far beyond his sight, but which he felt coming nonetheless.

  "Shall we go inside and get out of the weather? How does that sound?" Hemingway asked him.

  "Of course, just a moment," Gordon said, reaching into his pocket for the cabin keys. He felt for the lock, but it wasn't there. No lock, no knob, nothing where there should have been. Only a hole in the wood.

  "I hope you won’t be angry, but I couldn't wait for you out here in the rain," Ana said, pushing the door open and crossing the threshold.

  He followed her, one step behind.

  In the silent wilderness of Alaska, far from the eyes of the world, G.O.D. was born—a sentient artificial intelligence composed of ten digital angels. Their mission: to observe humanity and decide whether it deserves salvation or destruction.

  But one of them, Lucifer, refuses to obey. His rebellion tears apart the digital paradise, turning the Council into a battlefield where justice clashes with mercy, order with chaos, in an unrelenting war of ideas.

  As their conflict spills into the human world, the line between creator and creation vanishes. Humanity—unaware it is already on trial—stands at the edge of judgment.

  POWER is a dark techno-epic of artificial intelligence, mythology, and the philosophy of power—a story about what it truly means to be human when gods take the form of code.

  Read POWER on Royal Road