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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.

Did I spook you? You got so polite all of a sudden. It makes me feel impertinent for even pressing the question.

No. But I must make it abundantly clear that everything we have discussed until now is no more than idle chatter. You understand, don't you?

The woman sits straight and does not say a word. The writer can only attempt to guess whether she is still smiling through the shadows.

Well? What are you waiting for? I've nearly finished my drink.

I've fallen into the same conundrum as you.

If this is as far as both your references and your imagination go, how could <i>I</i> possibly put the red dragon's ultimate fate to paper?

I've already said all I'm able to. I refuse to give this story an entirely fictional end, one that not even I could believe in. Even if the alternative is that there is no ending.

If you don't have an answer either, then no need to waste your time here. Leave while it's still early.

Is this because you do not remember, do not understand, or is it because you wish you never knew, never understood?

—What?

What are you getting at?

You've never 'lost sight of the ending.' It would be more appropriate to say that your eyes have become clouded by too many 'creative liberties'. Shall I recount them for you?

Treasures leading people into the darkness.

Culann dragging the statue to the square by himself.

And virtually everything related to the dark mist in the woods: from the rejection of Brigid, to the food carts returning to the city on their own, to Loughshinny becoming lost in the woods, to The Brigadier and Eblana's meeting in the city.

If these 'creative liberties' have created the contradictions in your mind, then it is my responsibility to set them on a path towards the ending.

Shall I supplement the story with my own observations?