Some people, some stories, confused Ailee. Stories about people giving up power. Stories about people who weren't tempted by power. But far more than that, stories about people who were tempted by the wrong [i]kind[/i] of power. Oh, there is such might to be had in the red. In the concentration of force, in the capacity for unspeakable violence and immense, unstoppable presence that speaks its vices so convincingly the world must obey. The heat of being the one, the only one, the orbit around which all revolves - it sears her from the inside. The power to have everything you want at the tiny cost of having this [i]be[/i] everything you want. She could cast her body aside like a glove. Throw away her memories of home, her memories of lanterns as a burden. Never have to think about what happened to Lucien because she could burn his silhouette from her mind along with all the rest of it. She could ascend, return - come home. And coming home would be a battle - an eternal battle, the King locked against the King, one against one, casting fragments of herself into the world until they came back to engage in masturbatory showdowns once again. All the world could be the backdrop to her perfect solipsism, and would that not put the cosmos in its place like nothing else? To look upon all its wonders and all its terrors and decide, instead, that one's own self was [i]far[/i] more interesting? Thus her judgement: That only she mattered Thus her wrath: That she was the only outlet that mattered Thus her curiosity: The destructive, tearing search for something else that might matter Thus her waste: That nothing else mattered Thus her pride: That only she mattered Every word followed in sequence, in eternal circular logic. They were written on the gleaming green sigil-tattoos that wrapped her arms, they slipped from her lips, an oroboros proof against the world. King Dragon opened his jaws to swallow her once again. She took a step towards those jaws. Welcome home. This is where I belong, what I am for. Blood pumped from the heart and now returning for another circuit. Nothing matters, Ailee. Not Lucien, or Jackdaw, or Coleman or any of it. Nothing matters. And this, Ailee thought, was what all of the stories got so wrong about tempting someone with power. If she had judged power by how many kilograms of force she could apply to the strength tester in the Carnival then this offer couldn't be beaten. If she had judged power in the ability to resist being hurt or capacity to hurt others then this was the ultimate boon. If power meant becoming one with the status quo here was its ultimate manifestation. But what kind of person had such a flimsy idea of power? Thus her pride: My dreams matter most of all. Her tattoos wheel and spin as her hand reaches for her vest pocket. Thus her waste: Anything that stands between me and my dreams is worthless. Soft fingers close around the handle of the revolver. Thus her curiosity: The more I learn the grander my dreams become. The revolver whirs open. Thus her wrath: Anything that asks me to give up my dreams will burn. Five bullets, one after another, are loaded as she plants her foot on the Dragon's tongue. Thus her judgement: My dreams are bigger than myself. She fires five shots. The traditional number, the ritual number. All that was needed for this fight to conclude as it always did. The jaws begin to close around her. But she has one more bullet. Thus her heroism: Power that does not help my dreams come true is worthless. In the jaws of the dragon, Ailee fires her final shot.