The Sanctuary.
The Half-Plane.
Above the eternally flowing, milky-white sea of clouds, deep within a palace built of mist, lay a relatively open cloud terrace.
Margaret and Othilia stood side by side.
The former still wore her black dress, but her eyes betrayed an unconcealable exhaustion and anxiety.
The latter was dressed in pure, immaculate white, her jet-black eyes as calm and still as a placid lake, as if the earth-shattering events outside had failed to stir the slightest ripple within her heart.
Not far in front of them, a strange fault line appeared in the scenery of the cloud sea.
It was a massive void. No clouds flowed, no light shifted—only a blackness so silent it was unnerving, as if it connected to some unknowable yonder.
Suddenly, an unusual disturbance rippled through the milky-white clouds at the edge of the terrace.
A thin figure dressed in a plain, white linen robe appeared there without a sound.
