The Emissary’s question, a silent, heartfelt plea, hung in the void between the two worlds. At first, there was no response. The Purists’ world remained a perfect, shimmering crystal, its surface unmarred by the Emissary’s unwelcome presence. The endlessly repeating Symphony played on, a flawless, beautiful, and utterly impenetrable wall of sound.
But the Emissary did not give up. They remained at the edge of the Purists’ world, a silent, patient witness. They did not repeat their question, but simply held it in their heart, a tiny, flickering candle in the vast and silent darkness.
And then, something remarkable happened. A tiny, almost imperceptible crack appeared on the surface of the Purists’ crystal world. It was a hairline fracture, a tiny imperfection in the otherwise flawless facade. And from that crack, a single, dissonant note escaped. It was a note of pain, of longing, of a sorrow that had been buried for an age. It was the first note of new music that the Purists had allowed themselves to feel since the Great Schism. It was a beginning.