The person I buried wasn't my father anymore. He was a changed man, captivated and twisted by a sword from the stars that should've never landed in his grasp. He found it when I was still a child. Aftwerwards, I saw him hunched over shuffled papers every night. His long, thinning hair covered his face in oily strands, hanging into his lap, where he cradled the blade. In my eyes, his crooked neck made him look like a weeping willow. He wouldn't even turn to meet my gaze. "Tell me, where's your twin, little one?" He murmured to the saber. "Come hither, make me whole again." Now, many years, later, I am hunched over my own desk like father once was. His last wish was to be buried with his sword. I obliged. Did I do the right thing? He didn't die by the blade, but that sword took his life...

Eons ago, our realm was barren. Endless wastes stretched out in every direction, and the skies above where coated in a thick, black tar. Then, the firmament cracked open to reveal a shimmering sea. A flood of shooting stars sprung forth, leaving trails of color and wind as they painted our horizon. On impact, they pushed and pulled our ground asunder. Soon, our wilds were marked by mountains, valleys, and water. But not all stars gave life. Some sought to claim it. Two swords rained down from above — one lesser, one greater — and struck our alabaster crests. One slumbered beneath fresh snow and gentian blooms, another was swallowed by the skyward maw of a cave. Were they bad omens? Relics from a duel in the endless expanse? A gift from the Ancients? We may never know.