After Polifemo's mission to warn Louis about the troops heading to the festival, it was only a matter of time to see if his efforts would bear fruit.
Lower Galandria… Neither Mako nor his inner circle knew the name of this area. Despite visiting Fox for deals, to them, Lower Galandria was just a den of criminals and thugs.
Why had Mako gone so far as to betray Zork and warn the locals? Even he wasn't entirely sure.
If the narrow, labyrinthine streets were lively at night with street performers, the festival turned them into a sea of people.
It was as if every nearby resident had prepared all year for this moment.
"And now, a song to mark the end of the harsh winter!" a man shouted in the plaza, surrounded by musicians, each wielding a different instrument.
It was winter, and though the locals weren't clear on whether this was the festival's main purpose, they celebrated it as the end of the cold's torment. It marked the close of the harsh winter.
Snow no longer fell, but the chill was palpable.
Yet the musicians danced and sang with frenzied rhythms, tireless. Hands clapped to drums, and lungs poured into wind instruments.
The festival felt more like a carnival.
But this wasn't the main event.
Children ran through the streets, dressed as demons and angels, chasing and playing.
Vendors, plentiful, weren't outdone. They performed dazzling magic tricks to captivate customers and sell their snacks.
"Winter, you're gone! Winter, you stay!" the lead musician's voice rang out in Lower Galandria's small plaza, strumming his guitar with desperate vigor.
"Dead who leave! Dead who stay!" a female singer joined him.
Many gathered around the tunes, entranced. Most, unable to contain their energy, danced wildly.
But even with the excitement in the air, this wasn't the main spectacle.
The frenzied dances and explosive music were merely the prelude. The children's costumes and adults' masks were but ghosts awaiting the festival's climax.
The arrival of the Verdict.
A relatively small carnival float approached. The musicians didn't stop, exhausting their bodies and instruments until the last second.
From the humble float, powered by internal mechanisms, gymnasts began to emerge.
The float had a curtain at its base, and as if endless, men and women poured out, performing breathtaking midair flips.
Some spat fire into the sky; others leaped through massive hoops.
The float stopped in the plaza, surrounded by people—not just on the ground but in every nearby house, curious eyes peered from windows at the flower-adorned float.
It wasn't much else. Its colors were striking, but the float itself was simple: a curtained base and a wooden platform atop.
"Winter, you're gone! Don't come back!" the male singer belted for the grand finale.
The female singer gave her all in the final notes:
"Death, you stay! Be gone!"
The musicians fell silent after a dramatic close. The woman collapsed, exhausted, into the singer's arms, and the crowd erupted in applause.
But after the cheers, a hush fell.
Every person watched the figure on the float's flower-decked platform…
A slender, short figure in a long black-and-yellow outfit. Around their neck, a garland of tropical flowers like those on the float, and on their face, a curious mask.
The mask matched those of the dancers emerging from beneath the float: it mimicked an owl, with a sharp beak and two large eyeholes.
Beside the figure stood something else—a statue or symbol, hard to discern at a glance.
It was a wooden beam pointing skyward, with a carved wooden wheel anchored at its center.
Only those present knew the symbol's meaning.
"People of Lower Galandria," the figure on the float began, her feminine voice ringing out.
Everyone listened intently, without yawning or blinking.
"We've always relied on ourselves to survive," the masked figure said. "But now, more than ever, we must stand united."
She paced slowly in circles on the float's planks, orbiting the wooden statue.
"This festival isn't just the end of winter. Though its origins are unclear," her soft voice continued, "it's also a remembrance of those we've lost!"
Many clasped hands or embraced loved ones nearby. Others in the crowd wept, recalling a departed friend or family member.
"That's why I want this festival to honor one of the most important people, not just to me… but to our community," the masked figure said with deep sorrow.
She stopped pacing. The figure glanced around, then slowly removed her mask.
"He was a man who always fought for what he believed was just," she said, tears streaming down her face. "A man who did the impossible to protect us."
The plaza was lit only by oil lanterns outside homes. Some held candles, a parade of fireflies in her eyes.
As the night deepened into twilight, faces became mere outlines.
"I want us all to remember our hero, the last of the rebels," she concluded her speech.
The woman had a resolute face, sharp dark eyes narrowed in pain. Short hair barely past her ears, average height, thin brows, and narrow lips.
Removing her mask revealed her identity. Even if the dim light obscured her for those farther back, the earrings shaped like the float's statue gave her away.
Everyone there knew her, one way or another.
"Let us remember today… Arthur Lux, hero among rebels. My father… A friend to many," she said with difficulty.
It was none other than Rebecca, daughter of Sir Arthur II.
The crowd raised their fists, chanting Arthur's name in unison.
◇◆◇
"Where is he?" Mako muttered desperately to himself.
"Mako! If you don't come down now, we're leaving without you! As head of the royal guard…" Zork's voice boomed from a castle vestibule.
"I know! I'm coming!" Mako said, grabbing his rapier and preparing.
'Why haven't you returned?' Mako thought. 'Why haven't you returned, Polifemo?'