Liberi Reader

Hundreds, thousands of years ago, the Tarans' ancestors did the same as their descendants do now, lighting bonfire after bonfire in the barrens between autumn and winter.

They would sleep beside the red dragon, their red-hot dreams buffeted by sand and wind until raw, but even so it was enough to keep everyone warm.

They would wake up to a still-burning bonfire, because the red dragon does not sleep.

With a moment's rest, the red dragon could find respite from fatigue and pain by breathing in the dreams of homeland, liquor, and freedom rising slowly from the flames and into the sky.

Today, Samhain approaches. The people fuel the flames with wood torn from nearby ruins, and have entirely forgotten the ancient leisure time that seemed to last forever.

The quiet resident stands up without a word, and heads towards the bonfire with shaky steps.

The square has already descended into complete chaos.

Though half of it stems from suspicion and hatred—not to mention frustration at having revealed no spies yet—the other half comes from the looks of despair and the deathly silence.

Until a faint sound of something dragged across the ground rumbles in the distance.

The sound grows louder and louder, until it drowns out all the clamor and chaos.

Everyone hears the sound of something massive slowly being dragged closer to them.

He parks the statue in the square's empty center, and struggles to turn around before facing everyone before him.

The steel skeleton bears an icy elegance, wings frozen in motion craving for flight, in place as if it were meant to be there since the beginning.

For a moment, no one dares to respond.

Hate and doubt both remain, as well as the pain that keeps everyone from advancing towards him like an army of walking corpses.

The man before them is a hero. He protected Na Saoirsí. He dragged both blessing and curse all the way here, and the statue behind him laces his every word with an awe-inspiring weight.

Culann swings the sledgehammer he used to forge the statue towards the dragon's head.

However, he exhausts himself both in making and moving it, so with a moment's hesitation, the hammer does not come crashing down.

The crowd even assumes it to be some sort of ritual, and for a moment does not react to his plan.

Only when they realize Culann intends to destroy the statue do even the most dreary of the living dead collectively howl and dash in his direction, surrounding him.

Nemos's cry is drowned out by the crowd's yells, but Culann's voice remains clear for all to hear.

Loughshinny thinks of rushing over to him, but the angry crowd blocks her path. She bites her lip and tries to open a path through the sea of people with both her flames and voice, shouting to attract their attention.

Unfortunately, they act as if they have already lost their senses.

Maybe they truly have. Who can say?

Fresh blood gushes from Culann's mouth and nose as if he has just uttered his last words.

He bears an almost kind and expectant gaze as he looks at his compatriots surrounding him. Hoping their faces will reveal an expression other than hate.

But he feels as if his eyes meet only a sea of purple flames. The faces behind the fire are difficult to discern, as if they are the restless dead he met in those ruins outside long, long ago.

He looks into the distance.

In a corner at the edge of the square he sees a tiny figure.

He did not have time to look for Theo's corpse, but now it stares at him blankly, purple flames clearly visible around it.

Culann stumbles to his feet, and picks up his hammer to swing.

The crowd stares at him with dread, fearing that the hammer will fall on their heads, but they do not back down.

Culann uses the last of his strength...

And with the utmost ferocity, he strikes the dragon's head.

As if sounding a death knell.

The hero's body collapses before the giant dragon, stunning the crowd as if they've lost something.

Loughshinny's voice finally spreads as her fire burns like a sunset set aflame, but she fails to attract any attention.

At that very moment, the statue suddenly bursts into purple flames along with Culann lying quietly before it, sending the crowd reflexively into retreat.

Within the fire, Culann begins to pick himself up, while the giant statue extends its wings as if to fly away.

When Culann gets fully to his feet, the dragon statue flaps its huge wings, lifts off, and lands on the empty pedestal in the center of the square prepared just for it—

The crowd watches in complete silence, though whether out of shock or reverence is unclear.

From the citadel come the faintly discernible sounds of footsteps, slow and late.

The author glances towards the tavern wall, covered in newspapers no one has touched. Today's paper is there too, with a photo of The Leader gracing the headlines. It declares she is currently in Oak Grove for some ceremony or other.

'You still regard yourself as a Taran?'

An extremely ominous thought flashes through the writer's mind, but he immediately rejects it.

He looks at the newspapers again. The papers report only facts, even if they are edited.

The author takes another gulp of beer, despondently gripping his head. He knows it is too late to run.

But he can still turn things around. He just has to be clever about it...

No, this was not a matter of cleverness.

As long as he is prudent and lets the shadow of the story cast by firelight rise and warp, he will definitely be fine.