Starmaker - Arvus

For ten billion years, he had drifted through the Veil of Unformed Light, pressing his awareness against raw nebulae until they kindled into fusion. He had shaped blue supergiants for empires that would rise and fall before their light reached the nearest world. He had coaxed gentle red dwarfs into being, tucking them into the arms of spiral galaxies like lanterns for lost travelers. The universe called him Starmaker, and he worked alone.

"I make stars for the universe," Arvus said. "Not for individuals. A star belongs to the great pattern." starmaker arvus

The silver cities blazed. The oceans glittered. And the people—the fragile, calcium-and-water people—stepped out onto their balconies and wept. For ten billion years, he had drifted through

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. The universe called him Starmaker, and he worked alone

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