The people named it Arvus's Palm . And every night, children would point to it and say, "Look. He made a star just for us."
Until the crack.
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. starmaker arvus
But Arvus was already fading. The crack in the Forge had sealed behind him, and the Veil of Unformed Light was calling him back to his duty. Yet as he drifted away, he left behind a single gift: a new constellation, burned into the edge of their sky. Seven stars in the shape of an open hand.
The dying sun was smaller than he remembered stars could be. Its core had gone quiet, its outer layers cooling into a smoky haze. The silver cities below had grown dim; their people huddled in geothermal warmth, telling stories of a sky that had once blazed gold. The people named it Arvus's Palm
Then he pressed.
Arvus had no mouth, but he learned to shape vibration into meaning. "What are you?" For ten billion years, he had drifted through
"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."