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This is far enough. We're already at the wakemen camp.

Your sister roused me from my slumber. You could always return me to it with your own flames, if you want.

Reed!

A golden-haired Perro leaps off the back of a burdenbeast and rushes toward the red dragon.

The burdenbeast is dragging an improvised cart with numerous long wooden boxes stacked upon it.

—Brigid?

What are you doing here? Are those—

...Coffins?!

Yeah, coffins. Nemos said to bring 'em to the wakemen. Are they still in the ruins?

Say, is there someone with you? I can smell that same burning stink, and I could swear I heard you talking just now—

Hmph.

No, I'm alone.

These are...

Dead folks.

The type who'd pull their own arms out of their sockets to bite at their imaginary enemies if you grabbed their hand. Along with the poor wretches they tore to pieces.

And Theo. Nemos found him in the end. He...

It's almost like this was the natural order of things. The bonfires will be burnin' brightest when night falls on Samhain...

The red dragon looks towards Na Saoirsí, and sees a faint shadow in the distance, painting the silhouette of purple flames.

We'll be out of coffins if this keeps up.

I hope Brigid made it out of the city. And that the mist in the woods is thin enough for her to follow the trail...

Blast it, Culann left a few unused weapons in his house. I can't let anyone see them.

And this fuel... explosives? Her Highness Loughshinny might find a use for them.

No, what's the point when every servant in the citadel has already been afflicted by the purple flames? Besides, the greedy red dragon has already sent them away.

Almost as if... she's preparing for a showdown with Her Highness.

Or... setting a trap?

Who's there?!

Rory? What are you doing here?

You're... Nemos.

Yes, I'm going through Culann's effects. If this isn't urgent, could I ask you to—

Traitor.

Have you gone mad?!

Oh, silly me. Of course you have. We all have.

Traitor—

I... I still can't bring myself to kill them. Even if they might as well be dead already.

Ha. Hahahah...

I'd better drag this fellow back home. Could do without the unwanted attention.

Phew...

Nemos?

D-Don't mind me, I'll be on my way.

What's that in your hand?

Oh, nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me—

That necklace. It was a gift from Niels to Emma.

I-I gave her bread! That's way more valuable than jewelry in times like these! She gave it to me!

Did she now? A necklace she never takes off?

I-It's none of your business!

Nemos? You stayed behind? I thought all the Dublinners left the city!

Don't tell me you're one of those living statues now, who refuse to move or talk?

I might be soon. Why did you bring them up?

Samhain begins tonight. So I went through the houses of the missing people, and found plenty of good stuff for the party tonight!

...Samhain? Party?

About Culann—well, he was already on his last legs by then, and I didn't really...

Let's not talk about that! Look at all this stuff! It'll be a night to remember!

The woman shows Nemos her bag, revealing a bottle of curded cystymilk, a few long-since-sprouted potatoes, and several bare bones.

Just wait for me, Nemos, Culann... we'll have a fantastic Samhain...

Only when the woman has already disappeared around a corner does Nemos remember who she is: a villager who once lived on the outskirts of Na Saoirsí.

Two years ago, the Victorians took her father away while investigating Dublinn. The autumn harvest had just ended, and she had been preparing to celebrate the harvest festival.

What Loughshinny hears about the situation in the city exceeds her wildest imagination.

I must go back. Now.

Wait for me. I'll come with once I've delivered these folks to the wakemen.

Are you sure about this, Brigid?

It's dangerous in the city. If I fail... there may be no survivors.

True, but I still gotta go.

Why?

Because it wasn't like this before.

The cityfolk never had much to spare, but they always had a cup of water for me when I delivered their letters.

They didn't see me as one of their own, but didn't walk away with a sneer when I told them nomad legends either. They listened.

And they <i>definitely</i> didn't bite, claw, and punch at people like they do these days. Like the walking dead straight from a story.

Who will the nomads deliver letters for, if the city dies for real?

Moran?

The second shipment of bodies has arrived from Na Saoirsí. I must make the preparations.

At this rate, it won't be long until the third, fourth, or more.

Are we really going to ignore it?

As I've told you many times, the wakemen do not take sides. It is not our decision to make.

Are the Na Saoirsíans not Tarans too? Why are we standing on the side watching, when the Taran capital is marching towards destruction?

I know you came back with the red dragon. You fear she will meet the same fate as Labhréathach.

But we were the ones to send Labhréathach to his doom.

You...

We are descended from the priests that once officiated the ceremonies of Tara's royal palace.

Our ancestors, moved by Labhréathach's plea, welcomed him back into the palace when Ailill's stance was ambivalent.

The flames of death that spread through the plains of Tara were only extinguished seven days after his death, when our ancestors finally returned his fire to him.

They then left the palace of their own accord, going into self-exile on Labhréathach's former pastures, so as to never forget the lesson. And thus, the wakemen were born.

...I'm sorry.

But Reed isn't Labhréathach, and history is not a cycle that repeats itself endlessly.

If it were, Reed would have already died in that citadel.

Even her tyrant of a sister was the one to free Tara from Victorian rule.

Fates are often alike, but always differ where it matters most.

'Fates are often alike, but always differ where it matters most.'

What a wonderful tagline for the cover of the book. Surely this one is destined for the best-seller charts.

Assuming, of course, that you are ever able to finish the story.

I've never intended to profit off it.

Oh, you will. If not in money, then in fame.

The basis of the story, where it happened... There are more than enough reasons this isn't my story to tell.

Besides, what happens next?

That's what I wanted to ask. Did Loughshinny go back?

From this point on, what I've seen, what I believe, and what I've said all contradict one another. Which is why I've lost sight of the ending.

Feel free to take up the challenge, if you're up to it. Give this dance between the dragon and her reflection whatever ending you please.

Oh? Is it all the same if I tell it myself?

Of course, ma'am. As you will it—

The writer raises his mug, which is almost empty now, and toasts the woman before him.

Once again, he swallows the bitter brew, half-expecting the sweet aftertaste that he knows will never come.