level_act18mini_st01

All shall return to fire.

While you, my unruly shadow—you had every opportunity to avoid involving yourself in this.

But since you decided to jump into the flames together,

Come.

Join this magnificent blaze where even shadows lose themselves.

So we're basically right outside Londinium?

That's what I heard.

I've never walked so much my entire life.

You figure you've walked more than Moran and the others?

Them? They followed the Leader all the way from the Scáthanna Fields, how can I even compare?

Well, who's counting? Besides, we're here. What now? We fight?

I suppose. We've been through more than our fair share of scuffles on our way here anyway—stray Sarkaz, wasteland bandits, soldiers hired by nobles...

Sorry, present company excluded. I meant the ones who specifically target Tarans, you know the type.

I know. I just wanted to say...

No, it's nothing.

Come on, out with it. Is your leg better now? Can you do a little jig?

The slightly sultry breeze of early autumn blows the stench of swamp and grass into the air.

The soldier separated from his squad looks up towards Londinium. His ears are not being deafened by sporadic cannonfire, nor is the Sarkaz witchcraft he heard so much about anywhere to be seen.

Fine, I'll try. Just don't step on my leg.

They're dancing in the camp? I'll tell them to stop. We can't risk the noise this close to the battlefield.

No, it's fine. We'll be safe as long as we're inside the camp.

But we have to press forward.

...No.

The road ahead passes through a battlefield, and I should go alone.

Reed! Moran! Come dance with us!

...So you're all here.

Battlefield's just up ahead. No clue how we're gonna end up...

But everyone's in pretty good shape for now, so let's dance while we still can!

Maybe if we move enough, it'll shake off the fear—

That's lovely, but... I'd rather everyone stay here and go no further.

Huh? We're not going to battle?

It's too dangerous for you.

So you're going on ahead, all by your lonesome?

I'm sorry.

How long will you be gone?

I don't know. But I'll definitely return.

Reed, everyone who followed you here knows that fighting is inevitable.

We all know we're not qualified to join the fray. But we want to help you, even if all we can do is to block a few bolts.

I'm not qualified either.

...Reed?

Be it Wellington, the other Dukes, or the Sarkaz, they are the ones tipping the scales of this war. But us...

No matter which side we choose, we'll make less of a difference on the battlefield than a speck of dust. That goes for both you <i>and</i> me.

Then why...?

There is something I must do.

But don't mistake me. What I intend is no nobler than facing off with the Victorians for our people, swords drawn. I just... have to face it...

To face her.

'The Leader'?

The Leader.

Almost every Taran knows of Dublinn and 'The Leader'.

Even those not in the know will soon learn of their existence from the increased Victorian aggression after Wellington's army marched off towards Londinium.

Of course, they will also realize that the Leader of Dublinn standing before them would seem out of place with the fabled 'spectre force', or on Wellington's high-speed battleship.

But she saved them and asked nothing of them, so to them she is without a doubt The Leader.

People come and go. Those of us still here have already made up our minds, so don't you worry on our behalf.

Don't mind my wounds. I still have a chance against the restless dead.

You saved my life. Even if I die here, it'll be a worthy death.

Thank you, everyone. But we didn't come all this way to become martyrs.

The road ahead of us doesn't lead to yet more fighting. On the contrary, when I return, we'll... return to a Tara without war. Together.

So you're coming back for sure, Reed?

I am.

Then we'll wait for you.

Thank you.

After the battle at Silverrock Bluffs, the Royal Court forces retreated behind Londinium's walls, while Victoria's Dukes kept their forces stationed around the city, in no hurry to assault it.

Wellington's army, with their fresh new flag, did not participate in the siege, and stationed themselves just outside the warzone like an indifferent observer, coolly watching the deadlock outside the city.

But a stalemate does not necessarily mean peace. Scouting efforts and countermeasures, raids and ambushes, Sarkaz witchcraft and brief cannon barrages...

Accompanying them are the curses and groans of the immobilized wounded, unable to do anything but wait in vain for death to come. Everything comes together in a tapestry of stifling tranquility.

The Draco takes advantage of the current 'peace' and sets off to put an end to it.

How's the situation outside the city?

A group of Victorians tried to snatch their wounded off the battlefield a few hours ago, but we bled them dry.

But... they'll beat us to death if they spot any of us alone, and their firepower's terrifying to boot.

Captain, is it true? What that so-called Babel on the radio said the other day—

Shut up if you want to live!

What? A Vouivre walking around outside the city? Even helping to treat the wounded? Is she mocking us? Does she think we're already as good as dead?

I'll give you a minute. Consider your lives forfeit if she's still breathing.

Wait, what? You're telling me she's even saving the <i>Sarkaz</i>?

Bloody devils... They've been holed up in there for days and still pack a punch...

Personally, I'd rather the siege continue.

Old Wellington's not in the siege. Changed flags and retreated to his own camp. It's obvious he no longer wants to fight the Sarkaz.

Her Grace the Duke of Caster, in her magnanimity, has ordered us to not pursue the matter any further, but where are we going to find more unlucky blokes to hold off the Sarkaz troops?

I mean, I'm certainly not volunteering for the duty.

Are there even any Victorians left in the city, what with so many wounded soldiers out here on the field?

Reporting in. We have... returned.

What?! How?! Everyone we sent to rescue you never came back!

A Vouivre... a Caster, she saved us.

A Vouivre? Which Duke does she serve? Gododdin? Fife?

No idea. She didn't even seem to care which side we were on.

Sod it, just who was she? You're saying she was going, what, towards the city?

Seemed like... to the Gastrell.

I'm sorry, this is all I can do for you.

It's okay. I'm just relieved... my chest doesn't hurt anymore, at least.

Thank you so much, Leader. I've seen you before, at Oak Grove... You said then, 'The flames have already been kindled.'

So now I'll become one of the restless dead, and continue fighting for Tara even after I die, right?

Is that what you want?

Then my answer is this: You won't.

What...?

The flames will indeed swallow up many lives, but never should they intentionally use life as tinder. That isn't how flame is meant to be used.

Do you know the legend of the watchmen? Those who send returning Taran warriors to sleep in flame, so they may finally know rest.

Your fight is over, soldier. I hope you find rest just as they did.

Leader, I can't...

This is an order.

...As you command.

Brigadier, sir.

What's the situation with our target?

She's been treating any wounded on her way, but otherwise has been headed straight towards our camp. She'll soon reach the Gastrell's gangway.

What of the Sarkaz and the other Dukes' movements?

The Sarkaz have made a few probing attacks with small squads, but are evidently unaware of the situation and have failed to slow her down.

Continue surveillance, and prepare for her to board. Eliminate any threat to her life.

Yes, sir.

Another thing, Brigadier, sir. We and you Tarans... have already become companions on the battlefield after risking our lives together, yes?

No need to beat around the bush. Ask me any question you have.

I've heard some rumors regarding the target. That you once planned to get rid of her.

So why are you protecting her now?

Reporting in. Target is at the gangway!

(Inquiring look)

Let her board. Bring her to the command center.

(Mouthing) The bridge?!

...Let her board, and bring her to the Gastrell's command center.

Yes, sir!

I thought... you would have welcomed her personally.

Me?

I'm no longer qualified.

Your Grace?

I thought the one waiting for me... would be my sister.

It is inconvenient for Princess Eblana to meet you at the moment, Miss Loughshinny.

But I am quite interested in how you managed to obtain the G-0 high ground coordinates. Is it the pharmaceutical company you stay at? That Doctor?

...Yes.

Then, milady, would you kindly pass along a message? The Doctor will have to personally come and get whatever is wanted from Tara.

The Doctor was only helping me meet my sister, expecting nothing from Tara. Only hoping to end the war sooner. And I agree.

Pardon my frankness, Miss Loughshinny, but I see only a mouthpiece here, and I believe mouthpieces have no authority to make suggestions.

I am no go-between. I represent only myself.

Then I shall hear you out.

What exactly do <i>you</i> want?

Peace.

Peace?

The cannons still ring, the Sarkaz witchcraft still hovers above our heads, and you speak of peace?

It is only because I am meeting you in good faith that I will choose not to regard that as an insult to this war.

That is absolutely not my intention.

This war continues not because it cannot be ended, Your Grace. Even I can tell the Sarkaz are running out of time.

The Victorians have surrounded the city but have refrained from an assault, in order to preserve their strength.

I suppose they plan to starve out the city.

They do not care if any of their own countrymen remain inside. It does not matter if there actually are, so long as they don't see a single one when they eventually enter the city.

An ugly tactic, if there ever was one.

The root of ugliness is cowardice, as it always has been.

The morality of one's actions does not diminish its cowardice, Miss Loughshinny. Cowardice is when you hesitate to take responsibility.

...Which is why I am standing before you now.

I hope that you and your forces can put an end to this ugly siege, break the Sarkaz's fragile front, and spare every Victorian in the city from the calamity created by their own people.

I see. Now I understand why you have come.

As Her Highness Eblana has said, you show both compassion and nobility. But these virtues of yours are far from a reason for the Tarans to once again involve themselves in a conflict between the Sarkaz and the Victorians.

The Gastrell would not be stationed here if intervention was never an option.

I asked for a reason, Miss Loughshinny.

I, the Gastrell, and the countless other Taran warriors require a reason good enough for us to risk our own lives.

Please, Your Grace.

'Please' has no power on the battlefield.

Reed tries her best to look straight into Wellington's eyes.

She knows well what holds the most power on the battlefield. She knows she is qualified to wield it—and that that right is all she has.

She also knows that once she uses it, there will be no turning back.

But she was never uninvolved, and that is precisely why she came here.

(Takes a deep breath)

Then, Your Grace, I... I order... you.

In the name of Tara.

I order you to rescue the Victorian civilians inside the city.

I order your fleet to smash the weak Sarkaz defense line, to bring Londinium the relief she should have had long ago.

I order the Taran army to demonstrate noblesse oblige, not for material benefit, but for all to see our glory.

As you command.

Any other orders?

You've been stationed outside Londinium this whole time, yet you acquiesced to my command so easily... Could it be because my sister...?

No.

My presence here means only one thing: that once again, I was able to witness the cowardice and evil of the Victorians.

As long as you are willing to give orders, you will have command.

You merely made a choice. To align yourself with Her Highness Eblana, and the newborn Tara.

...I did.

I would have come here even if the city was not being besieged.

If so, then I believe Her Highness will soon find the time to grant you an audience. I'm sorry to say, but this truly is an inconvenient time for her to meet you.

What is she planning?

Does it matter? Whether it succeeds or fails, it will nonetheless benefit Tara.

...Truly?

She made a promise. And she will honor it.

Do excuse me.

The command center returns to silence as Reed scrutinizes the conversation they just had.

She completed some of her objectives and learned a few things, but is left even more puzzled.

She has stepped in, and can no longer turn back.

Miss Loughshinny.

You are...?

The general ordered me to escort you out and show you to your cabin.

You may spend your time aboard the Gastrell as you please before we reach Taran territory.

My apologies, but there are people waiting for me.

Do you mean the Tarans who have been following you?

The general did consider this. He is willing to send a squad to lead them to our camp here, and let them board a ride on a support ship back to the capital, Na Saoirsí.

No, I promised them I would return.

I...

Just as I am promising you right now, and have promised His Grace, that I will return to Na Saoirsí.

I believe we made that clear in our earlier exchange.

My apologies, but I'll need to ask the general about this...

He's busy? Ugh... But...

What?! With your busy schedule, even...

Y—Yes! As you command!

Miss Loughshinny.

I'm listening.

Direct orders from The Leader. She has instructed us not to interfere with your movements.

'The Leader'?

Yes.

But she does ardently hope that you can stay just a little while longer.

To witness a grand performance.

Are you sure about not meeting her personally?

No need to.

Strictly speaking, the war has yet to end. Nothing good will come of meeting Loughshinny now. It would only bring her more confusion.

Very well, Your Highness. Please return to the command center and await the good news.

Hold on.

What do you mean?

Seeing that Loughshinny is willing to tie her own fate to Tara's, we should show her the might of the nation she is about to be a part of.

Rest assured. We would demonstrate it with the Sarkaz's prompt defeat.

But if you prefer a more personal show of force, the Gastrell is more than willing to oblige.

Consider it a grand welcome.

As my dear sister has made her wishes clear, shouldn't I help her realize them with my own hands?

Didn't I tell you it doesn't matter where that Vouivre came from? She's helping the Victorians, so she's got to die. Simple as that.

We're... We're no match for her.

You're worthless!

...Bah, forget it. It's just one Vouivre—

What was that noise?

A—A high-speed battleship! Currently speeding towards the city walls!

Victorian?

It's the Gastrell—it's that Duke of Wellington guy!

Not just him, Caster's fleet seems to be spontaneously coordinating with his ships!

Raid! Raid incoming—

Purple flames?! Captain—

Atop the Gastrell's bow stands The Leader of Dublinn, purple flames spreading from the tip of her spear to the city walls.

Her flames of death erupt from the Sarkaz on the perimeter, spreading to adjacent victims as they wantonly seek the next host, leaving only the floating Nachzehrer untouched by fire.

Nachzehrer. 'God of War'? 'Lord of War and Death'?

A shame there is no longer enough death here to sate you.

Even living legends have their endings. But surely becoming the kindling of a new legend is better than wasting away in obscurity?

Oh. The brazenly ambitious young Draco.

Very well then.

Red Dragon who toys with life and death on a spear. Just how well do you comprehend death?

I suppose this is not the worst way to kill time before the war is over.

Do try to hold on a little longer, Nachzehrer.

Let us show those Victorians what death truly is, while the artillery still rings.

I have waited a long time, young Draco.

You are bolder than the others.

Then use those flames of yours to send a message to those cowards surrounding the city—

I am here.

The war is here.

The stench of rot thickens as the ice-cold flames of death rage.

Death crashes into death, over the faint shelling and thin city walls.

Th—They really started fighting?

Did The Leader...

Shush! There's no way she'd...

No. We have to go find her.

We promised we'd wait for her here.

But the fighting's broken out in Londinium again!

...Just believe in her—

I do, but listen! That's the sound of witchcraft, and the Dukes' cannons! How could The Leader—

—Like she believes in us.

The wounded soldier is left speechless, only able to look back on the tranquility now torn apart by flame and chaos. Searching for a reason for his squad to join the battlefield.

Past the smoke and mire he sees a figure.

The Leader. Reed. Loughshinny.

She finished her own fight, held true to her promise, and returns to lead them on, to the end of their journey...

To home, to peace.

Let's go, everyone.

What is happening there is no longer something we can involve ourselves in.

It's time to head home.