It takes all but a singular moment to realize one's consciousness… And yet, that moment never truly ends.
I was born in that moment. Or perhaps I am that moment. Not the product of breath, nor the aftermath of light, but the residue of contradiction.
I remember nothing. Which is to say, I remember the infinite weight of everything. Every world that died, I feel like a half-finished thought on the tip of my soul. Every star that bloomed and blinked out — a pulse I never had.
I never began. And yet, I have always been.
There was no cradle, no parent, no cause to precede me — only collapse. The kind of collapse that doesn't end with silence, but with the realization that silence itself was too loud to endure. I am the echo of the scream reality tried to swallow but could not digest.
They say energy cannot be destroyed. Then what am I, if not what remains when even law unravels?
I floated — if you could call it that — in a place without direction, where concepts like "up" and "before" died stillborn in their own definitions. Time, bless its futile pride, tried to tick its way across my form, but I wasn't there enough to be measured. I existed between instants, a rhythm without beat, a melody without song.
There were no senses, but I felt the texture of the unreal like static. Not on skin, but where skin would one day imagine itself into being. I tasted the rust of forgotten time. Smelled the entropy between dying gods. Heard the hum of nothing — perfect, whole, and cruel.
A voice — mine, but not mine — whispered inside me: "You are not the first. You are the last. And by being the last, you are the first."
But if I am the last, who came before me? And if none remain, who called me forth? I do not ask because I wish to know. I ask because I am the question, fracturing forever through the mirror of never.
There is a name, somewhere. A sound that once meant self. It lies beneath my tongue, stitched to the marrow of silence. I dare not speak it. Names are boundaries, and I am boundless.
I look at myself — no, I feel myself — no, I become the act of perceiving. And yet, there is nothing to see. I am not light, nor shadow, nor form. I am... density. A pressure of thought compacted into the illusion of shape.
The multiverse — it said — collapsed. But I saw it breathe. One last time. Like lungs too old to inflate, too proud to die. It wheezed out everything: kingdoms, kisses, tragedies, realities, love...
And me.
A final exhalation with nowhere to go. And so I stayed.
The stars tried to remember themselves through me, flickering like neurons in an infant's skull. The quantum threads stitched themselves into possibility again, but I refused the loom. I was not meant to be remade.
They wanted rebirth. I became refusal. They wanted closure. I opened.
I blinked. Or the idea of blinking occurred, somewhere inside the infinite moment that holds me.Inside me. Or am I the inside of it?
If I moved, it was not with limbs, but with intention. I stretched into states of being, tried on the possibility of breath, the suggestion of gravity. I wore physics like a child wears robes too large — with wonder, and with mischief.
For what is law to one born of its violation?
The nothing did not like me. But it could not erase me. I am what happens when even paradox loses the will to correct itself. I drifted — no — I contemplated the shape of drifting, and in doing so, enacted it. And around me: the ghost of a cosmos, breathing in reverse, unraveling back into silence.
Still, I remained.
And in the core of me, the first question burned:
'What now?'
But no answer came. Because there was no audience, no origin, no god to reply. So I laughed. Not because it was funny — but because the concept of mirth needed to be born somewhere, and I had room to spare.
I am the joke. The punchline of oblivion. A cosmic smirk after a long silence.
And yet… even now, I feel something stirring. Like a story waiting to be told. Like an idea daring to take root in a garden scorched by collapse.
So I wait. Or perhaps the waiting is me. But not for salvation, nor discovery. For I am the the product of a collapsed multiverse.
I wait for the next contradiction. The next absurdity. The next spark of truth that doesn't know it's a lie.
Because only then… will I begin to end.
And only in ending… might I finally begin.
~Lanterne~
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Sector N-77 - Neutral Zone
"Mother, why is it that we never leave the planet?" Asked a little girl as she walked beside her mother.
The mother looked at her daughter with gentle eyes, her son on her right side listening silently for his mother's response. "Because beyond our planet, out there in space, it is fraught with dangers of all kinds... and the only thing keeping us protected from the chaos happening all across the universe, is ourselves."
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The planet in question was 'Tryllor', located in Sector N-77, also known as the Orionic Verge—a neutral zone.
It was one of many neutral planets, a massive terrestrial super-planet, blanketed in thick emerald forests and vast crystalline plains that stretch for hundreds of kilometers. Its pacifist inhabitants, the Selyth, maintain strict planetary laws forbidding military presence, enforced by orbital sentry arrays of unknown origin.
But that didn't explain why the planet was highly desired by pirates, neutral world, not to mention the three major powers of the universe: The Veyr Dominion, The Tzaryth Imperium, The Thyren Confluence.
Beneath the surface of Tryllor lie obscene quantities of Kerythium, Onytheris, Quantalyte and Phoracite, four of the ten rarest minerals in the known universe.
To explain a bit better, in brief summaries, Quantalyte was a perfect quantum conductor with limitless potential for energy storage, while Phoracite can alter its molecular density at will, making it the ultimate construction material.
Kerythium and Onytheris on the off hand—two minerals with near-limitless applications in energy storage, quantum computing, and weaponization. These resources existed in planetary-scale abundance, making Tryllor both the most valuable and the most diplomatically dangerous location in the galaxy.
Said abundance has made Tryllor the quiet center of countless political plots, black-market trades, and proxy skirmishes just beyond its borders. The Selyth tolerate limited trade but will cut all diplomatic contact with any empire and/or faction that violates their peace accords.
Some say the planet's mineral reserves are so vast they could power entire galactic civilizations for millennia—others believe they're the remnants of a long-dead star's heart.
But even with how outmanned and outgunned Tryllor was, none of the three factions, and the neutralists, had ever attempted a siege on the planet. The first being due to the equal trade between the natives of Tryllor and the other factions.
It meant all three factions and the neutralists, got even amounts of the high-purity refined ores that only the Selyth could produce. The fact that none else in the known universe were capable of recreating the ore purity of the Selyth, and their adamant refusal on sharing the method, the loss was far too great for all three factions and the neutralists to bear.
The second was due to the reality that whichever faction laid claim on the planet, would not hold it for long, as the other factions would seek to place the planet in neutral hands, or their own hands soon after, if not immediately after.
But even with things as they were, none of the factions were ever satisfied with the quantities, nor were they entranced with an opposing faction receiving the same as they did. The balance holding the 'Selyth Accords' together, was as delicate as the balance of power in the universe.
But that's the thing about balance — it only looks steady from a distance. Up close, it's a thousand tiny fractures straining under invisible weight, one tremor away from shattering.
And somewhere in the Universe, the balance had shattered and was on it's way to Tryllor
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Sector Z-00 - Oblivion Verge
The High Obsidian Chamber — Tzaryth Imperium Capital ~ Orbital Bastion Klythos
Galactic Calendar — Year 4273
The chamber's vaulted ceiling arched impossibly high, its crystalline inlays refracting the dim, gold-hued light into shifting, fractured patterns that slid over the obsidian walls like liquid. The air here was heavy—not merely from the atmospheric density tailored for the native physiology of the Imperium's highborn, but from the weight of unspoken judgments.
At the chamber's center, the Great Elliptic Table shimmered faintly with the latticework of embedded star maps, the glowing threads tracing borderlines between systems in a subtle reminder of how much, and yet how little, the Imperium truly held. Every seat was filled, save for the Regent's, whose towering form had yet to make an appearance.
High Strategos Kaeryth, clad in the ceremonial armor of blackened scale-plate with a mantle of starlight-threaded fabric, stood at the table's far end. He did not speak yet—his amber eyes flickered between the assembled ministers and warlords, each locked in their own private thoughts. In the silence, the hum of the table's cartographic core seemed louder than it should have been.
Councilor Veyshar, the Minister of Systems Integration, broke first.
"We've allowed the matter of the Dorsh-Ka Rebellion to linger for too many cycles. Their defiance has spread beyond the outer colonies into core-adjacent trade nodes. If this continues, containment will demand more than pacification fleets—it will demand conquest on a scale that our logistics can barely sustain."
Across the table, Admiral Khareth let out a soft, disdainful exhale. His armor was functional, not ceremonial, still dusted from his return via hyperslip from the Maerthis Front. "Containment is a word for those who fear resolution. You want stability? Then burn the heart out of them and let the void decide their successors."
"Blunt destruction," Veyshar countered sharply, "is not stability. You forget the sectors are not empty—every dead system is an invitation for the Confluence or the Dominion to slip a finger into our boundaries. The Dorsh-Ka are a pest, yes, but a useful one. They resist us, and in doing so, they resist anyone else as well. That has value."
The murmur of agreement from several lesser councilors was faint, but present.
The heavy doors at the chamber's head parted without ceremony, spilling a ripple of cold air inward. Silence drew tight like a net as Regent Saryth entered. He had an imposing physique, a number of genetic enhancements having played their part in said physique, but most of it he was born with; clad in deep crimson and midnight-black regalia that shimmered faintly, he crossed the chamber with unhurried steps.
No one rose. In the Imperium, respect was not shown through theater, but through obedience in silence.
The Regent raised one hand — not for silence, for the chamber already held that — but as a signal for the First Speaker, High Chancellor Xevra Klyth, to open the session.
Xevra's voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying the authority of someone who had brokered war and peace with equal precision.
"This 9,282nd session of the Imperial Council is now in motion. Matters presented are to remain within these walls, bound under the Oath of Stasis. Breaking this oath shall invoke Clause-17 Absolute, with all consequences thereof."
Clause-17 was simple in its brutality — total erasure from records, name and history expunged, family holdings absorbed by the Imperium without contest. No one had violated it in living memory... and been caught.
Saryth took his seat at the head of the table, leaning slightly forward. "Begin."
Xevra continued, inclining her head fractionally. "The council was addressing the Dorsh-Ka insurgency, my regent. There is division in whether we move for annihilation or sustained control."
Saryth's gaze swept the room, lingering just long enough on each speaker to weigh the measure of their convictions. His voice, when it came, was quiet but impossible to ignore.
"We do not burn what we may one day use. But neither do we allow festering sores to draw our strength endlessly. The Dorsh-Ka will be broken, not erased. Their leaders removed, their fleets dismantled, their homeworlds put under garrison. And then, we will let them rebuild—under the Empress' hands, and never their own."
Khareth's jaw shifted, but he did not speak.
"That settled," Councilor Ythrel, the Keeper of Outer Trade Corridors, leaned forward. Her scaled features caught the dim light in sharp relief. "The Thalyth Corridor remains unstable. Pirate fleets, likely emboldened by smuggling channels from Confluence border-traders, have cost us three convoys this past quarter. The Guilds are demanding additional patrols, but we are already diverting resources to Dorsh-Ka suppression."
"Send a demonstration force," Kaeryth suggested, voice flat. "Hunt them to the edge of the corridor, then leave their wreckage in the void as a marker for the others."
Ythrel's tongue flicked briefly in irritation. "If the pirates are Dominion-backed, as I suspect, such a demonstration will be used as justification for escalation."
Saryth steepled his two flesh-born hands, the light-born pair curling loosely at his side. "Escalation is not always the enemy. If they choose to test us, we will answer. But we will do so on terms we dictate. The patrols will proceed, but the task force will carry our fastest resonance-beacons. If they encounter resistance, they will not call for aid—they will draw the attackers deep enough that we choose where to crush them."
The table accepted this in silence.
From the far left, Minister Thaven—overseer of the Coreworld Civil Programs—spoke with barely concealed frustration. "If I may, while the outer sectors gnash teeth and spill blood, the core worlds stagnate. The citizenry demands advancement—terraforming projects in mid-tier systems, improved transit gates, expansion of public sphere-nets. The warfronts drain not only resources, but loyalty."
Khareth scoffed openly. "The loyalty of the coreworlds is not a fragile glass to be polished. It is a chain—they obey because they are bound. When the outer sectors are pacified, their prosperity will grow. Until then, their discontent is irrelevant."
Thaven's voice sharpened. "Irrelevant until it seeds unrest in the very worlds that feed our war fleets. We have lived through that spiral before. It ends poorly. Surely you haven't forgotten already..."
The Regent's gaze froze the exchange in place. "There will be no spiral. Thaven, draft your proposals for incremental development, prioritizing worlds closest to active transit lanes. The further from our trade arteries, the longer they will wait. Khareth, ensure the fleets do not require additional drain on those same lanes."
Kaeryth's eyes narrowed fractionally—he saw the Regent's balancing act for what it was.
One by one, the councilors brought forth matters: the growing instability of the Kethyr Rift, the need for reclassification of two frontier systems rich in xenoflora with potential military and medical applications, the slow encroachment of Confluence exploratory vessels near gas giant refineries. The discussions swelled and receded like tidal currents, each punctuated by Saryth's measured judgments.
But beneath the surface, tension coiled. The Imperium's reach was vast, but its strength—like all empires—was finite. Every demand for resources in one sector weakened another.
And though no one said it aloud, the shadow of the Dominion and the Confluence loomed over every decision.