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<i>Just before the mother engaged the dark mist, the wakeman of the woods came to remind her that she had yet to do that which was most important: hold a proper funeral for her daughter.</i>

<i>The mother had intended to fight the dark mist to the death, but tears began to stream down her face when the wakeman sang their ancient song, and she chose to follow tradition and hold a wake for her daughter.</i>

<i>All through the night she cried at the purple bonfire representing her daughter's soul. The downpour of tears quenched the fire burning through the city, nearly extinguishing even the purple funeral fire.</i>

<i>When the wakeman once again asked the mother if she would still fight the dark mist to the death, she gazed upon the smoldering bonfire with tears on her face, saying,</i>

<i>'I cannot abandon my kingdom's people.'</i>

<i>As she said those words, the feeble purple flame suddenly turned bright yellow. Her daughter rose from death and walked out of the flames, and mother and daughter embraced each other.</i>

So ends the story. Not in fragments, but a true...

...ending.

Congratulations. We've pieced together the truth.

And what a happy ending!

This is all thanks to you! Come, let us toast, then I'll write this all down and publish it for—

Well, publishing it may be a, uh, a challenge. But now that it's complete—

The funeral, the bonfire, the resurrection... you saw everything.

I never expected you to find the courage to return to Na Saoirsí.

Singer.

And it was a lovely ending, wasn't it? Eblana departed with the dead, never to return.

As for you, Your Highness Loughshinny, I dedicate this story to you. Whether to publish it, seal it away, or have it fade into obscurity along with the remnants of Dublinn like me—is all up to you.

How wonderful.

I almost regret allowing you to belittle yourself with a title like The Singer.

You—

Wait, what?!

You're not Loughshinny. Y-You're—Eblana?!

The once 'Singer' swings his arm furiously, spilling his drink on the table.

You're dead! You can't be alive! You were killed, twice! Once by spear, and once by fire—you shouldn't be here!

Or am <i>I</i> dead? Ha, haha... this isn't funny. You're dead, Red Dragon! Go back to where you belong!

I see. That's it. It was all a lie. You never died. You killed Loughshinny instead. It was all a trick, an illusion—

If so, what becomes of your story?

My... story?

Have you calmed down?

You shouldn't be alive... no...

Has death ever been an eternal sleep for me? What I could do with life, I can do with death.

As a reward for completing the story, 'Writer', let me tell you one thing: All that matters is fire.

...The purple fire.

The purple fire from your story. It may seem ethereal, but it is no fiction.

It is true that, over the long course of the war, I shared too much of my flame with others and became weak, feeble.

But fire spreads. Fire consumes. Fire grows.

After the battle with the Nachzehrer on the Gastrell, I needed to take back the flames I had given away, which had been growing on the plains, in the ruins, in the hearts of the people.

You wanted it repaid... with interest.

Taxation is the most basic authority of a monarch.

Mundane kings collect blood taxes to nurture their armies, to fight over land and people that will last mere centuries at most.

<i>I</i> collect blood taxes to pave a road between life and death with the Red Dragon's flame, so that all those caught in between will look up to me.

The ravings of a madwoman...

No doubt it sounds that way to you, for you cannot fathom what happens when enough death to consume a nation is returned to its master.

A thousand years of anger, sorrow, and hatred converged on me all at once. Did you think they would let my flesh and spirit fade away so easily?

A slave to hatred. What a fitting end for you—

Have you already forgotten what I said in your story?

Everyone—and everything—that thought they could mold me just happened to take on a form I was able to wield with ease.

Were I truly their slave, you'd have been ash the moment I saw you.

...You lunatic!

That's why you allowed Wellington to station his troops in the Dark Woods, to blockade the city, even continued the curfew... You never intended to spare Na Saoirsí!

Why thank you for finally being willing to shed light on the unpleasant truth of the dark mist and Wellington.

Does the Battle of Silverrock Bluffs, which you witnessed from the deck of the Gastrell, still haunt you in your alcohol-fueled dreams?

It's never left you, has it? Why else would you be so obsessed with depicting the mist dangling above people's heads, yet so loathe to define it?

The curfew was justified at first. There were still Victorian spies in Na Saoirsí at the time indeed.

The Duke of Wellington stepped up the blockade when Loughshinny entered the city, because he wanted to smother any possibility of news leaking about the two red dragons.

And the food that disappeared and came back on its own...

The Brigadier was more than just your most trusted lieutenant—he was also captain of Wellington's Redsteel Guard. When he went to ask for supplies, Wellington acquiesced.

Wellington simply became disappointed in Loughshinny when she left Na Saoirsí to seek the wakemen, that's all.

You should thank her, really. You'd never have escaped the woods if Wellington hadn't relaxed the blockade out of disappointment.

As for the victory party you were so afraid to describe...

Don't tell me you've really glorified it into a fairy tale in your memories?

Of course not...

What happened to the Dublinners who weren't willing to give up their power, the ones you took away on a pretext?

They were 'swallowed by the dark mist,' as you put it. Quite literally.

But Loughshinny still managed to make up her mind and killed you, and Wellington didn't follow your ridiculous orders!

Suppose I believe that your aberrant purple fire left you a vessel. What do you plan to do with it? Lead an army of the dead to retake Tara?

I won't help you. No living soul will. You and your dead friends can go straight to hell!

Heh.

Indeed, you were never suited to be Dublinn's Singer.

You cling to what you see and believe. When the two could no longer be reconciled, you chose self-destruction rather than to give up on either.

But do you really imagine that everything has gone the way you think?

A letter, Your Grace.

You may enter.

Is it urgent?

N-No, ma'am.

But look at the seal. It corresponds to no emblem on record from the past fifty years...

Tara?

The Duke of Caster scrutinizes what the servant is holding.

On the edge of the envelope is an emblem excavated from the dusts of history.

The young have never seen it, while the old have forgotten it. Only those forced to keep an eye on history remember its source.

We are uncertain whether it is the mark of Tara... or of King Gaeil.

I never took you for a scholar of heraldry.

That was not my intention. I just—

It is enough that we know what it signifies.

'To the Duke of Caster.'

Open it and read it out aloud.

Not too quickly.

Yes, ma'am.

There is no greeting...

'Your previous letter was received.'

'The response was delayed as the time was not yet ripe. Now, it is.'

'From this day forth, martial law is hereby lifted in Na Saoirsí and the surrounding lands south of the Grey Hills...'

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Martial law to be lifted at midnight across all of Tara!

Publishing restrictions lifted! The art community rejoices! Read more on page two—

Finally. Now we can call this a proper tavern.

Hear, hear! With the curfew lifted, you can drink all through the night!

Besides, it's my birthday! Drinks are on the house!

R-Really?

You sure about this? There are enough people in the city to drink you out of house and home.