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...Think how tough it must've been on her, catching up to her brother today.

...Say, how do you think my family's doing?

They're still back living in the village. It's about time they replaced the roofing straw. Once we find a place to stop over, I'm getting a Messenger to ask how they're doing.

It's alright, I'm sure they're fine. I'll help you find that Messenger, come then.

Grand.

...But where are we going? We chased a Dublinn squad that was all dead people, and Selmon's not found her own. Where should we head now?

*sigh* Reed, what do you...

...Reed? Where'd she go?

...Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... three less than in the day.

...I just don't get it. What kind of Originium Arts is this? Makes me sick looking at it.

She squats behind a boulder, looking around.

The soldiers keep marching for their heart's destination, upon the twilight wilds.

The colors of the Dublinn uniform fade beneath layers of mud and soil. They seem as if held in a silhouette, one lit by a glimmer from somewhere unknown.

I just need to... pounce, then retreat, and I'll be fine.

A hundred meters.

They turn to walk straight for the boulder Selmon hides behind.

Tch, he's at the back of the squad. Looks like he didn't get to be the leader. Made himself out so bloody big in all his letters.

They're headed for... yeah, same direction as the letters said.

Fifty meters.

Selmon clenches the wooden cudgel in her fist.

...Is the city you're heading for that important to you?

Who's telling you to head on? You'd still go, even if you died?

Even though you're being battered by—wind, and rain, and all these people one after another? You'd still go?

Thirty meters.

She remembers the first time she saw Dublinn's troops, two years ago.

They told her, once she was decided, she could come to them. The Leader would give all Tarans a place to survive.

...I'm sorry.

I... never could be as sure as you were. You never looked back, but I did.

She rushes out.

Like those Victorian soldiers in the daytime did, like Ch'en did, these people that have ceased to be can be knocked down again, so long as every attack comes swiftly enough, ferociously enough.

Until they'll sleep peacefully in the soil of Tara, never called to stand again.

The soldier does not fall.

He merely stumbles for a moment from the blow to the neck, and then swiftly spins around, pulling out his sword.

He is ghastly silent.

You lot! Out of my way! I'll send you all right back with him!

No, I will, I'll do it!

I was just here to find my brother, but you're all the same...

(Silently attacks)

—Piss right off! At least say something!

Grgh...

Square, that was...

Hah, bloody hell. Head, chest, it's just not enough, is it.

Her cudgel flies out of her hand blocking the next attack.

And in that moment, the soldier's mask falls off.

She feels a sort of illusion for a moment. As if the way he brandishes his weapon slows, for a fraction of an instant.

As if her brother is about to give him both his hands, like when Victoria's police accosted them in younger times, shielding her in his embrace.

And then she sees his familiar face all so clearly.

His forehead drips no blood, and his eyes turn no look to his little sister.

Those eyes gaze to the distant, vague horizon, a rage of firelight longing, burning within.

—Just like the night he decided he'd seek out Dublinn.

And Dublinn soldiers surround them. Selmon blankly, dazedly, reaches a hand out to the man before her.

Admiration, aspiration, guilt. Regret.

All swallowed up by the ice-cold fire that her fingertips brush.

Fear.

All she is left with is fear. The fear of that longing, maniacal, burning unto death.

And before time can move again, flames blaze high, incandescent sparks blossoming into the night sky.

So close her fingers could almost touch, a flame blooms forth, and vanishes again before she can grasp it. The soldier falls over, to the ground, and never makes another whisper.

Are you scared of my fire? But your fire is the same as mine, Loughshinny.

It will burn forever. Trying to smother its glow, to extinguish it, is futile.

You needn't fear it being seen. Why don't you let those who see it, fear it?

I know that in my body is a fire. If I feel for it, I can feel it burning me. After so long, the pain of it comes to me even before my thoughts do.

Our parents warned us to take these flames we were born with and swallow them down, hide them away, and never let them be seen by anyone.

But I knew—how my sister would secretly burn whatever she didn't want, and then she'd get something better for it.

Can I do that too?

Dad, can you take me to the bookshop?

That morning, I thought I'd try acting like her, talking to my parents in her tone of voice.

Every time she told them what she wanted, they'd agree with panic, like they were being burnt, yet with love.

She and I had the same appearance and voice, and wore the same clothes, so why couldn't I disguise myself as her?

I want to read the sequel to the Steam Knights adventures... since—I don't want anyone asking me, how come a Victorian wouldn't like stories about the Steam Knights.

...Tomorrow, Loughshinny. Your mum and dad are exhausted for today.

Dad... did you recognize me?

Of course. How could I ever mix up my own two daughters?

I only realized, after that snowy night, that he didn't say yes—because what I wanted was far too small.

She wouldn't have gone begging to our parents, just for a new book.

I followed behind her, running as fast as I could.

The bells to reunite sounded—yet—we no longer could go home.

Eblana... Where... are we going?

...Where do you want to go?

I... don't know...

Nowhere's home, so go knock on any old door.

You just need to be honest to whoever opens it, and tell them that we have no home to go back to on this snowy, festive night.

No matter how cold they are, surely they'll sympathize with two children.

Go, Loughshinny, don't be afraid. I'm watching over you.

Under the glow of icy, purple flames, I knocked haltingly on the first door.

The flames had taken the lives of those we hated so only moments ago, but I wondered so badly—if those flames would come to kill me instead, if I did anything wrong.

—But—what did Sir do wrong?

I heard—there was a play being put on in the Tarans' neighborhood, hence why on such a snowy night, Sir never came home for being so late.

My sister made me sit down in his study. She simply warmly stared at me, and never answered my questions straight.

I knew—she was very disappointed in me. I should have been able to reach my own answers.

...He taught us—to ruin the lives of the innocent, to stir the schism between the Tarans and Victorians.

He even... plotted his fallen opponent's murder, just like—those Victorians—killed our parents.

So, taking his life... was what we were meant to do.

My sister could always do the right things, while I never could.

She gifted her spear to me, yet every time I gripped it, that pike burning with flames, I shivered.

Just as I did now.

Am I... right?

No, Loughshinny.

Death is merely there to guide him to his dreams.

He showered us in conspiracy and political trickery, peeled us of our freedom and dignity. That was detestable, yet detest is all that is.

But even while he'd mastered his methods, his sights were set too narrow. That's what was truly regrettable.