The Thalassomare Festival (First Stage)

Dawn over Clémarine wasn't a promise of clarity, but a translucent curtain letting in a salty mist. The city seemed immersed in a theatrical pause: market stalls hung festive fabrics, play posters, and a succession of masks hung on balconies.

Two days had to wait for the big event; two nights for Anastasia to turn her spectacle into prey.

At the Scarlette mansion, the final costume transfer was yet another act somewhere between the ridiculous and the ceremonial. Fatima supervised like a stage manager while the others filled out borrowed outfits and virtues.

"Let's split up," Fatima said, putting her hands in the pockets of her cloak. "It's smarter and, frankly, more fun. Two tickets: the gala and the gentlemen's courtesy pass. If both teams get in, we'll cover more ground and confuse the guards."

Isolde nodded curtly: "I'll go with Vera and Sylphidia." We will introduce ourselves as visiting countesses. Lucien, you will be our butler.

Lucien, with his cloak draped over his shoulders and his mental quill at the ready, gave a small theatrical bow. "It will be an honor to assist Your Excellencies. I promise not to stumble over the dramatic line."

"Promise me only this," Isolde said, "that you will not feign more nobility than you possess and that you will not try to steal the spotlight."

"Steal the spotlight?" he protested. "Never, madame. I am a mere lantern highlighting the main statue."

Ayato, watching from a corner in a dark, overly tight suit, snorted. Beside him, Fatima had chosen a formal ensemble for them both: a tailored jacket, a fine waistcoat, and a mask that revealed her smile. The idea was that, as a high-class dance couple, they could glide through the most festive section of the amphitheater and then descend the "other side" of the Pseudo-Castle, where the stones spoke more quietly.

"So... I'll be the awkward prince, and you'll be the noblewoman who teaches me how to burn in society," Ayato murmured mockingly.

"Don't underestimate me," Fatima replied, brushing her fingers against his arm. "I can be a muse... and a weapon."

Sylphidia, wrapped in an overly full dress that matched her ethereal figure, tried on a ridiculous headdress.

"Can I wear this on my head?" she asked, turning around like an ornament.

"If it helps you get more free wine, go ahead," Vera said with a half-smile.

***

When the two groups left on their separate paths, the city seemed to swallow them up, eager for spectacle. At the entrance to the Thalassomare islet, a curved wooden bridge connected to the amphitheater.

There, on a mound of seaweed and dry rope, a checkpoint stood: two guards in nautical-looking armor guarded the entrance… and between them, on a mother-of-pearl scale, perched the curious inspector: a small, talking crab, wearing a tiny badge and round glasses, holding a list in a claw.

"Next!" squealed the steel guard.

The line smelled of silk and ship's gasoline. The first team arrived: Isolde, immaculate in long cloaks; Vera in discreet embroidery; Sylphidia floating elegantly; and Lucien in a butler's suit that seemed too solemn for his smile.

The crab cleared its throat—a noise that confused claw clicks with throat clicks—and read the sheet in the voice of a bureaucratic porter.

"List of those authorized by Anastasia Vodnikova… Count Lavrien—sparks—Baroness Du Clos—note—… Miss Sylphi… Hmm. Mr. Lucius…" He looked suspiciously. "I don't see your entire group. Name: Isadora… not on the list."

Isolde's eyebrows raised with the same icy expression she reserved for demons and bad poets. "What did you say?"

The little crab stood on its legs, solemn. "Not on the list, nobleman. Anastasia has her criteria. The selection is fine: vital energy, marine affinity, and a certain scent of tragedy. Without those credentials, you can't enter."

Vera clenched the handle of an invisible fist. "What now?" she murmured.

Lucien leaped forward with the ease of an actor smelling his applause. His gestures broadened, his smile wider.

"Oh, gentleman crustacean, you play a very important role," he said in a courtroom voice. "We understand the sacrosanct bureaucracy, but there are... variables. If Miss Isidora doesn't appear on your list, it's not for lack of merit, but because of embarrassing administrative red tape. Allow me, humble butler, to divert attention and present our credentials in a less bureaucratic manner."

The crab looked at him with disdain. "There are no distractions. The list... the list is the order."

Lucien, unfazed, took from inside his vest a business card he had prepared in a burst of vanity and slid it through a crack toward the mouth of the scale, as if inviting the crab to read poetry.

"If there's no list, let there be theater," he suggested a little game of verbal tug-of-war: "If I convince you that Miss Isidora must enter for dramatic reasons, will you grant me passage? He raised a theatrical eyebrow"

The steel guard snorted. The little crab, after shuddering, consulted the list like someone seeking a clearer version of reality. His tiny eyes fluttered over the words.

"Hmm. The rule demands that the authorized person be the one listed. But also," he corrected himself, "you demonstrate poise, dignity, and the ability to embody a virtue the hostess would desire. You serve me as a substitute for a ritual seal."

Isolde frowned, annoyed by the pantomime. "I didn't come here to put on a show so a sentimental crustacean would be won over by a ventriloquist's flourish."

Lucien, smiling as if he already possessed the audience's applause, took a theatrical step back. 

"Then, in order not to cause a social scandal, I offer a symbolic sacrifice in the name of your nobility," he turned, "to avoid future incidents, I will strike you right here in the name of the Countesses!"

Bam!

The crab was perplexed once it landed on the ground from the blow, then made a small movement with its antennae as if weighing the offer. Its little legs trembled. "I didn't expect... such generosity." It looked at the steel guardian and added, "It's fine. Thank you, Your Highness."

Lucien bowed his head solemnly. "At your service."

The steel guardian raised an eyebrow and snapped, "I'd prefer you not harm my equipment," and finally, with a mechanical gesture, he moved his spear aside to let the group pass.

Isolde advanced with a firm step, her robes brushing the floor, and they entered the amphitheater amid a sea of ​​guests who didn't give a second glance to the pantomime.

Lucien, as he crossed, whispered to Isolde—like someone offering a secret—"I remain an honorable steward; save my name for the opera I will write about this."

"I'll call you when I need you to get me out of ridiculous situations," Isolde replied, without looking at him.

***

On the other side, the second team was approaching their own post.

Ayato and Fatima crossed the side walkway: he in a suit that skimmed his collarbones, she in an evening gown that gleamed like fish scales. At their post, another small guard: a coral gargoyle with muffled features and a voice, who examined Ayato's mask with disdain.

"Couple walk. List: Mr. Nagatoshi, Ms. Scarlett," he read in a cavernous voice.

The marble puppet thundered, waiting for a check on its crude tablet. Fatima, with feigned delicacy, presented a fake letter of recommendation: her last name, a family seal, and a powdery scent that distracted more than one sentry.

When they crossed the stone entrance, the view was different: Thalassomare unfolded like an internal amphitheater, terraces and stands carved with marine figures; Balconies with masks, columns sculpted in the shape of tentacles, and a mist that seemed to move slowly as the music prepared its first chord.

Farther down, underground passages and passageways opened like mouths that promised more than views: promises.

Isolde, walking at the head of the first group, sensed the pulse of the place: a heartbeat that wasn't human, a vibration of stagnant waters.

In her eyes, reflected in the stone, she saw shadows slipping under arches: not simple decorations but surveillance enclosures. There were guards dressed as choirboys, and masked figures staring hungrily.

"The music will start in a few hours," Vera murmured, taking Isolde's hand as if for support. "If what Rydia says is true, the people will give up their energy without realizing it."

Isolde barely nodded, keeping watch.

For their part, Ayato and Fátima infiltrated further down. Stealthily, they walked through passageways with fang-like stalactites and balconies overlooking the amphitheater's abyss.

The "service" entrances smelled of salt, tar, and old oil. The real danger wasn't the admiring audience, but that "other side" of Thalassomare: the labyrinth, the chambers with tridents, and the dungeons converted into rehearsal rooms for rituals.

Fatima brushed Ayato's arm, murmuring, "Beneath the glitter there are cobwebs, mon chéri. If you want some stature, you'll have to arm yourself with patience and war."

Ayato gave her a dry look. "I have enough patience not to die of embarrassment. The other thing... I'll try as soon as I'm not suffocated by so much perfume."

Meanwhile, high above, the Sirens' children's choir practiced a intonation that chilled to the heart of stone. From their box, a figure wrapped in green cloaks—perhaps a local noblewoman—scanned the crowd like someone observing pieces on a chessboard. Anastasia hadn't appeared yet, but her presence was felt: an invisible conductor fine-tuning her act.

Both teams split up once inside, knowing that infiltration would require synchronicity: unspoken passwords, subtle signals, and the certainty that if the spectacle broke from its delirium, Thalassomare would become a cage.

Lucien made one last note in his notebook before leaving—a phrase he would later write as an epigraph: “The nobility here smiles out of loyalty; the city applauds because it has been taught to do so.”

And in the echo of that applause, Thalassomare's music swelled, wave after wave, as if the sea itself were breathing in key.