"Those were happier times," the Patriarch mumbled with a rare softness in his voice as his gaze lingered on the portraits.
He quickly composed himself, remembering the urgency of his visit. "The fluctuations in the cracks that were created by that person's sword. What do you think of it? Could he be alive? Or is this just a coincidence?"
His sister rose slowly from her seat by the window, her movements stiff as if she hadn't moved in years. The pale fabric of her dress brushes against the wooden floor. She walked towards him, her lifeless eyes never leaving him.
He remembered the day vividly. The day those accursed cracks first appeared. With a single swing of his sword, the man had managed to split apart the heaven into multiple fractures.
"The man who did this," the woman's voice was low, yet cold. "The one whose arrogance scarred the heavens and stole my children."
