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Your Highness, The Singer has just sent word that The Elocutionist and the rest have taken Loughshinny. They are on their way to County Hillock.

I see.

He only sent news after our troops left and 'The Leader' had already set out for County Hillock. He seemed to want to avoid offending The Elocutionist and his group, but also to avoid accusations of concealing information.

What should we do with him?

Dublinn has never needed him to be our eyes. No one is counting on him for this.

My utmost apologies. I take full responsibility. I assumed they were heading towards County Hillock on orders, and never imagined they'd dare to take Loughshinny.

But they haven't gotten far, so we can still catch up if we set off now—

Your Highness, I bring news from your sister. She hopes you can curb The Elocutionist and his men from acting rashly, and bring her back.

She said that herself?

That's right.

I'll mobilize the troops at once—

Hold on.

Your Highness, we should stop them as soon as possible.

Also: 'I don't want to go to County Hillock'. Straight from the dragon's mouth.

If that is truly her desire, then she ought to realize it with her own hands.

It would be no difficult task with her flames. Has she not already sentenced quite a few to death in the name of The Leader?

Tell her this: if that is what she wants, she can do it herself—

No, there's no need for even that.

Your Highness, if I may be so bold, she <i>is</i> your—

My sister?

The giant dragon flaps its steel wings, stirring up a flaming vortex, but Loughshinny does not waver.

She stabs her spear firmly in its eye socket.

Still unable to commit to killing me, Loughshinny?

Gradually, the dragon's voice overlaps with Eblana's, and eventually even its body becomes hers.

The scenery around them changes swiftly, just like that night in the ruins with Labhréathach.

I just... don't know.

What exactly do you want?

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.

I pray with all my heart that every Taran will be able to curb their own flame—flames that came from slavery, from oppression, from humiliation, from sorrow that never died out, not for thousands of years.

I neither need nor expect you to forget. I only hope that you can do as our ancestors did, and let those flames become your lamp.

A lamp that first warms yourself, and then...

...illuminates the path for us all. So we can truly laugh, sing, and live in our homeland.

A bright yet gentle light.

While the crowd is still mulling over her words, one of the residents suddenly cries out in pain.

Agh! Why is the burn on my hand suddenly hurting?

Wait, the colors of all your lamps...

Even my own changed colors!

These are the lights the Red Dragon hopes you will carry to warm yourselves.

Purple fire belongs only to the dead, yet we unwittingly let our own flames be dyed its color through overwhelming death and loss.

But we mistook that fire for a blessing, and allowed ourselves to be dragged towards the abyss...

If the Red Dragon hadn't killed herself tonight, and we hadn't managed to return her flames, we could all have been dead by now, turned into walking corpses.

To extinguish the flames of death in ourselves... You said that's why she killed herself?

The sense of guilt that had crept up on Nemos after the purple flames vanished leaves her unable to reply. She only nods slightly.

Then, she feels a sudden chill on her face.

It was a drop of water. Nemos lifts her head and looks to the distant night sky.

More look up as the damp raindrops pelt their faces, gently washing their tears away.

It is raining.

On Samhain's eve the rain falls, heavier and heavier, but the crowd still remains in the square. They wish to thank the Red Dragon for returning their lives, for separating life from death.

But the dragon tells everyone she will remain here until everyone returns home to rest.

So the people gradually disperse, and eventually even the wakemen and refugees bid goodbye to the dragon. They worry that some of the dead, who have not returned their fire yet, will gather around the ruins, although that worry is unfounded.

By the time the sun rises, no longer will there be any wandering dead on Taran soil.

Amidst sobs, Nemos bids goodbye to the dragon as well. The next day, she will wake up early to collect bricks from all over town to make a new door for Culann's workshop.

The huge square empties out, leaving only a red dragon and a nomad.

Where are you off to next, Brigid?

...Not sure there's anywhere <i>to</i> go, really. All I've ever done is pass on messages or report oncoming Catastrophes.

I think they will replace my job though... What are they called again? 'Catastrophe Messengers'?

There've been less and less of us nomads anyhow, so I guess I'm glad someone'll carry on the work, at least.

You should try contacting Rhodes Island.

Hm? What's that?

A pharmaceutical company. They're good people. You'll have to look for their headquarters—it's a landship.

I'll write them a letter tomorrow, and I was hoping you could deliver it for me. I think you'll like the place.

But for tonight... You ought to rest inside the fort. We can't have you sleeping in a tent with all this rain.

Let's head to the citadel gates first.

The two of them slowly make their way towards the citadel.

The downpour continues, and the fire on the sculpture is nearly extinguished. Only a faint flame of indistinct color flickers in the dragon's eye sockets.

They suddenly hear a voice from behind.

Stubbornness and stupidity really are hereditary, I'm telling you.

How can someone forget their own bet?

Is there someone still in the square?

It's that invisible brother of mine. He made a bet with me.

Invisible?

Don't turn around, Loughshinny.

He's a wee bit awkward, that one. No fan of being seen, I'm sure.

Hah.

Looking at the flickering flame in the dragon's eyes, Labhréathach recalls a time centuries past. When Ailill was still a lad with a cracking voice, while his own beard had just started to sprout.

Máighréad, 'the Exquisite', was promoting everything Victorian in the royal capital, and ultimately even banned a favorite custom for Taran commoners: placing bets.

That day, Labhréathach had exploded in an argument with his mother, with an unprecedented level of rage.

Afterwards, his mother ordered him to fast and reflect, but Ailill sneaked into his brother's bedroom with a big piece of steak for him.

The brothers blew out every light in the room and merrily gorged themselves, even licking their fingers clean. 'Enough stubbornness. Soon everyone in the capital will be a Victorian.' Ailill said.

Labhréathach stroked his still-soft beard, and merely shook his head. He asked: Then why not make a bet with me? Once Mother's gone, not a soul will willingly continue pretending they're Victorian.

'Fine.' Ailill replied.

The older brother burst into laughter. 'What's on the table, then? What'd make a good wager? Why not the crown? If you win, I'll never set foot in the palace for the rest of my life.'

'No. I'll wager anything but that.'

<i>Ailill had refused.</i> It was I who insisted on having it my way, half as a joke, and half hungry for a gamble. I nearly put him in tears, didn't I?

Yes, yes. Because Ailill was always the type to give in. He'd definitely agree.

And so, in the end, he said: 'Alright. If you go, then never come back.'

Afterwards, I ended up leaving the palace, wandering for years as Ailill spent that time unhappy in the capital.

I heard that after losing half his men in the court, Ailill was controlled by not even Victorians, but Taran nobles speaking with Victorian accents.

You lost, Labhréathach.

No matter how homesick you are, you've spent far too long on this family visit.

Not to mention you're just a pathetic shadow cast by firelight. Man, you have your own road to walk. No more breaking promises.

Right, just like that, take out that purple fire from the stab wound on your chest—

Ugh, argh...

Agh—And now, return it to the dragon who walked the same path you did...

The Exiled King's face twists from pain, but nevertheless he extends his arm bit by bit towards the eye of the skeleton.

*cough* *cough*, argh...

Let's see, Ailill. Is this your blade's...

Can phantoms also feel pain? Can they shed tears of anguish? Or is it merely the rain dripping through him as his body fades to nothingness?

He can no longer tell.

...Or perhaps the flame of your good descendant here—

Labhréathach!

Loughshinny snaps around, but there is no sign of anyone else in the square.

Only the purple fire in the red dragon's eyes. It flares up a split second, before the rain extinguishes it completely.