And Arvus, who had made a trillion suns without once being thanked, felt something crack inside himself. Not the Forge this time. Himself.
He gathered the stray hydrogen from the system's frozen comets. He sifted helium from the solar wind. He reached into the quantum foam where new elements dreamed of being born, and he stole a handful of strangeness —the rarest fuel, the kind that burned not with fire but with will. starmaker arvus
"Please," it whispered. "We are dying."
It appeared in the Forge of Possibility—a fracture in the fabric where new stars were born. Through it leaked a sound Arvus had never heard. Not radiation, not gravity waves. A voice. And Arvus, who had made a trillion suns