Starmaker Arvus -

And somewhere in the darkness between galaxies, Starmaker Arvus—who had no hands, no eyes, no heart—felt the warmth of being known. And for the first time, he understood: a star was never just a star. It was a promise that someone, somewhere, was watching.

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

"A people. The last of us. Our sun is failing. It was never meant to last—a borrowed star, a remnant of a dead galaxy. We have three thousand cycles before darkness swallows us whole." And somewhere in the darkness between galaxies, Starmaker

Arvus had never been asked. He had simply been —the unthinking hand of celestial mechanics. But now, something stirred in his dust-heart. A memory? No. A possibility. He gathered the stray hydrogen from the system's

Arvus had no hands, no eyes, no heart—at least not in the way mortals understood such things. He was a consciousness woven from cosmic dust and the echoes of dead quasars, and his purpose was simple: to make stars.

"Our pattern ends with us," the voice replied. "We have no gods. We have no one else. Only you."

And Arvus, who had made a trillion suns without once being thanked, felt something crack inside himself. Not the Forge this time. Himself.