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She'd considered the possibility of ending it all, even if it meant the fires of the Draco would never die.

She'd imagined the flames of wrath bursting from her aching chest, burning away the shell and identity she had been given, liberating her from the shackles of her self.

But when she truly went to touch her flames, desiring to hold them, she suddenly wondered if she never had control over them in the first place.

You've done well, Loughshinny.

You wanted me to give you my sincere praise. Is this good enough?

Or have you prepared yourself by now... for the shadow to return to the self, for you to replace me as 'The Leader'?

I can give you this opportunity. Your next plume of flames will burn me to ashes.

Will you... reach out to me?

The flames burn, and her shadow sways slightly.

But Reed averts her eyes.

Not far away, Caireann, who has just woken up, slowly props herself up atop an old apron, and Moran hums as she helps clean her wound.

Sister, why did you come back?

What do you see, as you stand here?

The campfire burned bright that night.

At the time, Fionn was wandering around begging for a new foothold to get business up and running, and Selmon was wrapping more wire around her weapon.

Everyone called her the Leader jokingly, but they were serious when they thanked her for bringing them all here.

I heard that King Gaeil was crowned by the Victorians, and only then did they erect the royal palace over a ceremonial stone circle.

Before that... it was first home to the Tarans.

She thinks back to festive winter nights from long, long ago.

They would change into new, matching outfits in front of the fireplace, leaving behind a photograph of their smiling faces.

What a lovely... warm little ball of flame.

So... no.

I don't care about being a shadow.

But I am not <i>your</i> shadow. I am simply—the shadow of our people's ideal 'Leader.'

They want a way out, a way to get their lives back; I happened to be there, and became needed by them.

So why must I defeat you, Sister?

Not afraid of death? Please don't say that, Caireann. There's nothing wrong with being afraid of dying.

How tragic would it be to die at Dublinn's hands before we save our fellow Tarans? Dublinn wants to save them too, you know.

You're... a lot more well-spoken than before.

Lucky we've still got plenty of anti-inflammatories...

Ufff...

Did that hurt? Sorry...

Ah, Reed, you're back.

If we hide here tonight, we shouldn't run into any of the Arts-controlled corpses again.

Have you surveyed around us already? That's good.

I wish we could stop a bit longer myself, but Caireann's injuries... aren't looking good.

Hey, what's that look on you for...

Haha. I still remember at the beginning, we all saw you like you were our doctor. Only later we realized you're just like all of us—wounded.

Are my own wounds, well, er, serious?

No, they aren't... Don't worry. Your injuries can be healed.

It's just... are you afraid of my fire?

Of course not.

And so she reaches out, to the wounded Taran in front of her.

The Draco's burning anger wells within her blood. In bygone times, the Red Dragon bled for his people, one drop of his blood incinerating plains from end to end.

She swallows her roiling breath. The suppressed flames scorch her.

But if doing so can soothe pain, then she is willing to endure it.

—It is no true flame that burns in her hands, not even a flash of light.

But invariably, the people are filled with the same feeling—the flowing of life, as gentle as one's eyes opening for the first time to the rays of morning.

*sigh*...

I'm guessing by your face... you're already feeling a lot better?

Yeah... Reed, you... maybe you really are a doctor? Still, not that you work the same way other docs do.

No. What these are... are my own flames, at long last.

May you sleep soundly tonight, Caireann.

Never thought I'd see the day someone outside the Victorian Army would board a high-speed battleship.

That should've been the first thing on your mind the moment you lowered the Victorian flag.

I have nothing against you, Taran—I just want to see your forces' military proficiency. Plus, I'm rather curious about that Leader of yours.

I certainly hope the Duke's guest isn't just relying on her Draco bloodline.

Your arrogance towards us seeps from your very bones, Victorian.

But when she gets up on stage to give her speech, you'll find that she is the true master of the forces on this ship.

I still don't get it. Are you people Dublinn or not? After all, you don't dress anything like them.

But, regardless of who you are, you saved us from the Victorians. I'll follow you anywhere.

...I'm sorry we couldn't—help your friend.

It's fine... it's fine. As long as others can be saved, I suppose you can say he's still living through them.

...Alright.

By the way, Reed, have those people given up on hunting us?

Hmm... The team that was tailing us vanished fairly abruptly, but in any case, things work to our advantage.

Dublinn's forces should be assembled now.

...The Tarans are about to make their voice heard throughout Victoria.

Soldiers.

The Dublinn forces I am in charge of have come from all over Victoria to join His Lordship's army, and together, they will fire the opening shots to the war for their survival.

Up until the last few days, many people may not have heard of the Dublinn name, or have any idea what we are fighting for.

Your war is picking up steam as we speak, but ours has been raging on and on over the last decade. As we speak, those flying the Taran banner continue to bleed.

There are no words that can describe the atrocities that the Tarans have had to endure. I have seen their streets burned to ash, their cities reduced to rubble.

And yet they, who deserve everything the land can give them, met with our soldiers at risk of being executed to break their bread with us.

I saw the Tarans crying out to us in their struggles. However, their salvation has been deferred not decades, but entire centuries.

They appeal to their great and mighty compatriots... and to their neighbors of conscience, to all those Victorians who will not be co-conspirators to tyranny.

They cry out for our attentive eyes.

As I speak, there are those among us who are well-aware of their Taran blood. Yet, there are others who may be asking—who exactly are we going to help?

Tarans. Tarans... With all the time we've spent together, we've all gotten used to using this word.

But what you said never left my mind, Reed. You said the factory workshop we were in lacked protective measures, so everyone would slowly come down with Oripathy and waste away.

Yet, the owner of the factory who drove the Tarans to work under such dangerous conditions... was himself a Taran.

And there are so many people like you who speak bog-standard Victorian. Though they were born in the same place as us, they're afraid of talking with us, and revealing their accents...

What exactly is a Taran? Who is it we're trying to save?

It's been on my mind for a long time, too. Do you want to hear what I think?

Go on, Reed. We're not looking forward that badly to fleeing for our lives. Of course we're happy to hear you out.

Mm... At this point, I might say—it's the name given to the centuries of our plight.

In the past, Victorians spent many years trying to erase the Taran name. But I'm sure you can all feel it—those ties are still there.

Victorians don't call us Tarans. They call us 'nasty-sounding, uncultured bumpkins, good-for-nothing rascals, ill-bred scum'...

Or, as many people have experienced, they strip us of our property, our land, and our rights... even the lives of our kin. All because of our common name.

Some may say to us—then why not give up your language and your traditions? Why not sing the same songs as Victorians at the festivals?

As long as others can't tell that we're Tarans, we'll be able to receive the same treatment as them.

Of course, there are others who may retort that even though they are Tarans, they've earned wealth through willpower and dedication, receiving enough education to climb up into the upper class.

—To this I say, how ironic it is that we must throw aside our culture and betray our own name, just to earn the dignity of being seen as ordinary people by them.

Though some of us have achieved greatness, the first step to success invariably is to become Victorian.

Duke Wellington, surely you understand this better than anyone else...

How many people still remember that your heart pumps a Taran's blood?

But. Given that Victoria is deliberately trying to strip us of our name, does that mean they've really forgotten about Tara's existence?

If that were the case, then why did I, a descendent of King Gaeil, a surviving Draco, two hundred years after the fall of the Taran kingdom—

—Watch my parents be murdered by the Aslans' assassins, left to lie in their own blood?

No. They are afraid that we will remember our names and expose their lies.