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You deceived me, and lied to so many, all for what? For the city to be buried alongside you? To become the next legendary King Gaeil?

I never lied to you.

And why should I believe you now?

What exactly is Na Saoirsí to you? What about Tara?

I had always believed we shared the same dream. So why do they seem completely different now?

Or will dreams eventually become a card for you to play in your mad pursuit of power? One that you'll inevitably grow bored of, just like...

Just like Loughshinny back in County Hillock?

County Hillock?

I saw no desire to return to me in your eyes back then, only relief. Was I mistaken?

Though I—indeed. I was truly sick of it back in County Hillock.

With my flames, I can mold anything I want into any shape I want. Everything except my reflection in the mirror.

No matter how large a blaze I stoked, she wouldn't change one bit.

...Because you've never burned her directly.

Because I've never burned you directly.

I've only ever waited. I've always been waiting. Waiting for you to give me an answer.

An answer?

—What about you, Loughshinny? What do you want?

Yes, it's good that your blood and your upbringing have you carry yourself high, but if you want for nothing, then what sort of position am I meant to leave by my side for you?

Go on. This is your wish on a snowy night... I'll let you aspire as grand as you want.

True, you never used your flames on me, but only because you had other tools more suited for the task. Fear, duty, guilt, sympathy...

You've never asked me directly to change, but you've done so indirectly countless times.

So all my attempts to guide you were useless, yet my apathy bore fruit? How terribly ironic.

Whatever the case, you've finally returned of your own will, ready to embrace a real life. That is enough.

Conspiracies, lust for power, war... Is that what you'd call a real life?

Is it not? Stories, poems, legends... Do you think <i>those</i> are enough to constitute a life worthy of you or I?

...I know, I've always been ashamed of myself. Even now I hate myself for not sharing your suffering.

I was the one who left, forcing you to shoulder it all on your own, letting them mold you into who you are now—

No, Loughshinny.

Recently, I've been wondering if you're just as arrogant as I am. The only difference is that my arrogance is directed at the land, while yours is focused solely on me.

What?

Conspiracies, lust for power, war... Why do you assume those are what shaped me?

They have never changed me. They simply happened to take on a form I was able to wield with ease, nothing more.

The tiniest bit of power can decide whether one lives or dies. Even more power can decide the fate of armies, and an overwhelming amount can decide the rise and fall of nations.

But power comes to an end.

The poets have always known this, and I think you do too. Am I wrong, Loughshinny?

Death mocks all equally, preparing a predestined end for those who crave power, ruthlessly snatching away everything they spent their whole lives chasing.

So if you knew your path would come to naught, why did you still...?

Eblana backs away as the giant steel-forged dragon follows suit.

Is it escaping? Or trying to hide?

Loughshinny subconsciously eases her fire, but in the next moment, bites down on her lip and abruptly increases her strength, pushing Eblana forward.

Very good. At least you have learned the most fundamental thing required for a life without me.

...Cruelty?

Determination.

If you have decided that this path is your life, then step forward and never look back.

You should be telling that to the people of Na Saoirsí—

Let me finish.

Death mocks all equally... yet I shall mock death.

So bless me, dear sister. For I am finally about to embark on a grand adventure.

Eblana retreats again and again, the smile on her face fainter than ever.

The sensation in Loughshinny's arms of piercing through steel gradually lessens, until it feels as smooth as a stroke through a body, then as hollow as running a spear through flame—

Until an immense force like the final flash of a dying light erupts from her speartip, pulling Loughshinny towards the other side.

Ice-cold flames wrap around her body, and she suddenly realizes that she now stands at the entrance of the citadel, on Red Dragon Square, right in the middle of the fire-returning rite.

Or perhaps, the dragon skeleton she is currently entangled with merely returned to its original position, and took the chance to pull her—with her firm grip on her spear—into the core of the funeral flames.

Do you still wish to get away from me, Loughshinny?

Light shoots out from Loughshinny's spear, brighter than ever.

In a flash, she feels a burning sensation as painful as her internal organs rupturing repeatedly. The flames of life burst and fade in the center of death, again and again until her weapon can no longer stand her overloaded Arts and bursts aflame as well.

The dragon's bones crash and collide with each other, like thousands of mouths singing their separate elegies.

The flames slowly grow warmer as Eblana's figure gradually fades.

Loughshinny's lips quiver, itching to say words of farewell. In her heart, she scans every book she has read, yet is unable to recall an appropriate line.

Before she dissipates, Eblana slowly cradles Loughshinny in an embrace.

Farewell... till death do us meet again.

I hope you enjoy my parting gift.

Parting... gift?

The mourners in the square are completely oblivious to what is occurring within the flames.

All they see is a fire growing taller and stronger, now covering the pedestal, the coffin, the dragon sculpture, the citadel, yet continuing to ascend.

The flames distort the dragon's figure. They can no longer tell whether it is flapping its wings in flight, in a death match with some unseen foe, or crying out in anguish with its head run through.

Everyone is silent, trying to identify its posture in the firelight, but all is in vain—

Until Brigid cries out in surprise.

The fire changed color!

The fire changed color.

A strong wind rising up from the ground turns the sky-searing purple flames into a maelstrom, and at the bottom where the coffin lies arises a small but scorching sun.

The entire deep purple vortex seems to light up, emitting a shining yellow from the bottom to the top.

Everyone near the bonfire backs away—the flames suddenly bear warmth, nearly burning them.

The rising heat dissipates, evaporating even the stream of sorrow.

Perhaps a miracle is about to occur. This is the only thought on anyone's mind.

A miracle, one I have no choice but to accept for Tara...

Is this the parting gift you prepared for me, Sister?

Eblana is undeniably dead. She cannot answer.

Loughshinny tries to recall their hug. Expectations met, a pinch of warmth, and cold calculation. What were the proportions of each in that embrace?

Or maybe, all those things were inseparable to Eblana.

You were right, Eblana.

If this was your ultimate goal, if you insist on laying this bloodstained crown atop my head, then, yes.

Slán abhaile.

Until death, we shan't meet again.

The flaming vortex exhales and dissipates.

The Red Dragon, the one who led the Tarans through the long night, steps forth from the statue's center towards the entirety of Na Saoirsí.

Her expression is blurred by flame, yet her figure is as solid as the ever-persistent life on the land.

One step, then another.

Her feet step over the coffin still burning in purple embers. There is no body within, only the familiar flame-spewing spear of The Leader.

The crowd holds their breath, and the square falls silent, as if they stand outside a hospital's delivery room, or perhaps a cemetery after the last shovel of soil has been heaped into a grave.

Only dancing flames remain, without rest.

I can forgive everything else you've done to me, Eblana, but not this parting gift... Never.

From past to present, your name will sink into oblivion, alongside the countless names who built Tara.

The only Red Dragon of Tara will be Loughshinny Dublinn.

I have returned.

The Red Dragon who led you in the fight against Victoria, in the fight for independence and freedom—

Loughshinny Dublinn... is back from the abyss of death.

I died to quench the flames upon you all, but the rain of tears you shed for me extinguished that fire, allowing me to return from the abyss.

This time, though, I will not drive you to your deaths.

Our grand undertaking is complete. Never again will there be cause for countless Tarans to offer up their lives and leave us only ruins and wailing.