act41side

So you won't go to the city, even to perform a fire-returning ceremony?

What you've described is highly unusual. We cannot simply take your word that the residents are no longer among the living.

Besides, the fire-returning ceremony is just that—a ceremony. Do not expect it to be anything more than that.

...Very well, then. You may return, wakewoman. Thank you for your help.

You intend to go back to Na Saoirsí, even without us?

Moran and the others have settled in well, and I've done what Nemos entrusted to me, so...

My work here is done.

Take care, Your Highness.

I will.

The red dragon sets out in the direction from whence she came. Everything that happened yesterday seems but a distant shadow now.

But also a tiny spark of flame.

'Return the fire'...

Have you made up your mind to go to your death?

The stranger?

Good timing, sir. May we talk? If you will help me—

Did your red dragon history lessons ever teach you about a poor wretch by the name of Labhréathach?

Excuse me?

I'll take that as a 'no'.

After returning to the palace for the first time in years, he never even had the chance to see his brother before the guards took him away and plunged a sword through his chest.

I know the story.

Then why are you so eager to follow in his footsteps, and have history remember you as a fool?

Leave. You've seen your sister, and you're still alive. In that, you've already achieved more than he ever did.

The story of Labhréathach and Ailill is not the story of me and Eblana.

...Fine. Let's say I was willing to hear you out. What did you want to talk about?

The city's fire-returning ceremony.

I just wanted to find someone to help with the preparations, but you seem to know a lot about the history and tales of Tara. So I was thinking you might be able to help.

History? Tales?

We can talk on the way. Come.

But that's not the way to the Dark Woods—

Just follow me. It worked out for you in the woods, didn't it?

...The ruins of the palace?

I've been here before. It's dangerous. The Originium-rich environment is—

You said you wanted history and tales. What better place in Tara than this *ancient Tengae expletive* palace?

The <i>what</i> palace?

Ah, never mind.

I appreciate your help in the woods, but I have important business to attend to. I don't have time to—

And what's this 'important business'? Dying for nothing?

Sure, you're different from your sister. That dragon's flames may be cursed, but her personality is as typical as they come. Arrogant, leaving no room for any other voice. You may be better, but—

I'm different from my sister, but she's not who you say she is.

But however different you may be, conflict is in the nature of the red dragons. Even if you were merely dragged into it.

And there is only ever one outcome. Only one may emerge alive.

One of you will die, sooner or later. So what's the hurry?

Have patience, young dragon. We're almost there.

We come here for this altar.

Altar? You mean that thing in the middle? Isn't that... the furnace?

'The furnace which fused together the weapons of every Taran soldier, and overturned the fate of the dynasty'... The furnace from which fallen soldiers were reborn.

That's what you call it today, isn't it? Far more important than just another 'altar', to be sure.

But an altar is an altar, even if it's a little bigger than the others. It was based on the ceremonial stone circle used to coronate the King Gaeil, and the palace was built around it.

Whenever an old red dragon died, this is where the fire was returned to them.

The fire... returned?

What you saw back at those wood-brains' camp. Gotta give them credit: they managed to remember all that, even centuries later.

Fire-returning wasn't just about a bonfire back in the day, though.

By the time of the old hag Máighréad, it was enough for the siblings of the heir to the title of King Gaeil to put their hands into the fire and get a few blisters.

Go back even further, though, and those siblings would have been burned alive together. Or so they say. There's no hard evidence.

Now you've gone even paler.

He flicks his hand, and a speck of purple fire flies forth from his sleeve, joining the same purple fire in the altar.

The flames breathe quietly, like an infant in its mother's embrace.

Your flame is purple too?

No, wait, you're a Draco...? Could you be—

Awfully slow, aren't you? Well, it's too late to run. Put your hand in.

What?!

You want Na Saoirsí to return its fire, didn't you? Put your hand in.

The red dragon falls silent, then stretches out her hand to touch the flame in the furnace. As expected, it is not warm, but to her surprise it does not feel cold either.

Now, I brought you here to see something—

The tragedy of Tara, the ill-repute of the red dragons... It is simply the cruel cycle of fate repeating itself, again and again.

Like your sister, I was an aberration that breathed the flames of death. It is not my intention to disrespect the dead, nor could I even if I wanted to, but I wanted to show you...

The fate of those who die upon this land.

Is this where we should begin? Understandable. Of all recent events, it is the most significant.

Your sister was right. Those who have touched the flames of death are beyond help. Yet the fire should not have spread so readily.

What hatred did it take for the Dracos to once again sire an ill-omened aberration, the first in six hundred years?

Ah, and him.

If you ask me, he slept in far too late. Could hardly drag himself out of bed by sunset. Of course he became the sacrifice.

...Even you should not speak of the dead so lightly. Do not justify it as a sacrifice.

You can only say that because you've seen too little. Those feelings will pass soon enough, once you're used to it—

See, here comes another sacrifice.

The Victorians who killed you have been chased out!

The last Victorian bastard died... before my eyes...

In a sense, your sister's dream did become reality. The Tarans have risen, and the Victorians have fallen. Simple. Direct. 'Satisfying'.

Were you... one of the bystanders too?

Don't get caught up on that, child. You know what I am.

This, I don't recognize. Explain.

...It was a war.

There are always wars. Be specific. Who did she incinerate, and what land did she set her sights on?

Victoria. Eblana wanted to take Tara back from the Aslans. This was the conclusion to that war.

The Aslans? Those conceited bastards? But is she not facing a Sarkaz?

Never mind. The lions were the ones who stole Victoria. That's all I need to know.

I don't need you to tell me what this is, just as I can tell the expression beneath the mask.

The satisfaction and joy that only appear on a red dragon's visage in the face of certain death.

No... that wasn't joy. It was the opposite—

The opposite? Maybe you were simply gravely injured and started hallucinating on the brink of death.

But as I said, this's simply repeating the past. Cities may ride on wheels now, and the master of the realm has changed hands, but what's inside never changes.

What is this? Your home? Where did you learn to point your blades at each other? Who's this man?

The Earl of Warwick. Our foster father.

Eblana said he helped Tarans see hope, a hope they could see but never reach. That all he ever did was drive thirsty travelers mad with mirages.

In his hand he held a delicate thread. On one end were the Tarans who had rediscovered their name, on the other lay the oppressors who had trodden upon them for so long.

...That thread was my sister and I.

Looking back... perhaps he was the first to be afflicted by the purple flame.

...Hah.

Not only do you sympathize with your sister, but you also know her well. No wonder you're so loath to kill her.

But I have no intention of becoming like her, nor will I simply allow myself to be killed.