The universe is old. So very old. Its memory is long, far longer than the fleeting moments of light and shadow that pass through it. Empires rise, bathed in the glow of stars that burn for millennia, but stars too have their time. Eventually, they fade, as all things must. And as those stars die, so too do the civilisations that once worshipped their warmth, their steady presence in the night sky. But the end of a star, a world, or an empire is never the end of the tale. No, the universe always remembers, even when those who lived through the fires and the ashes forget. And it is in this forgetting that the Unraveling begins.
The Galactic Consortium, a once-mighty coalition of the wealthiest worlds and the most powerful minds, stands now on the edge of a precipice. Its halls of power were once radiant, filled with the voices of dignitaries who spoke with an unshakable confidence, as if the universe itself bent to their will. The floors, made of marble harvested from the moon-cities of Enzara, hummed with the quiet energy of a machine in perfect order. The scent of sterile air, recycled through countless generations of filters, clung to every surface, a reminder that power itself could be contained, controlled.
But there is fear in their voices now. Their choices are no longer crisp, no longer sharp. They waver. Because they can feel it—the creeping dread that comes when power slips from your grasp. They look to the stars as they always have, seeking reassurance in the patterns of the cosmos. Yet now, those same stars seem dimmer. As if the galaxy itself knows that something dark stirs beneath the surface, something far older and far more dangerous than the petty squabbles of planetary governments.
And in this moment of fear, the Consortium falters.
Their rival, the Free Worlds Alliance, watches with hawk-like eyes from across the galactic divide. Born from the ashes of rebellion, the Alliance prides itself on being the antithesis of everything the Consortium represents. Where the Consortium thrives on bureaucracy, centralisation, and control, the Alliance stands for autonomy, for the belief that every world has the right to govern itself free of oversight. For centuries, they have pushed and pulled against each other, two opposing forces that together create balance. But now that balance is fracturing.
The Alliance too feels the tremors in the fabric of the universe, though they interpret them differently. Their mystics whisper of ancient prophecies, of dark omens seen in the patterns of dust clouds and the ripples of gravitational waves. These are not the superstitions of fringe cults—no, the Alliance holds its prophets in reverence. Their visions have guided rebellions, predicted the rise and fall of worlds. But even their most trusted seers have begun to fall silent. Some speak of visions too terrible to put into words. Others—those more in tune with the cosmic forces—speak of the Unraveling, though they do not understand it. Not yet.
And then, there is the Corporate Syndicate. They do not look to the stars for answers, for they believe they hold the answers within their grasp. Behind their gilded doors, far from the public eye, they experiment. They prod at the seams of the universe, stretching and pulling at the fabric of space and time with reckless ambition. They do not care for the laws of nature or the sanctity of time itself. To the Syndicate, everything is a resource—everything can be harnessed, controlled, commodified.
Even time.
It is they who first heard the Signal, long before the Consortium’s scientists and the Alliance’s mystics began to study it. The Syndicate, ever watchful, ever calculating, recognised its potential. But the Signal is not what they believe it to be. They think it a message from some long-forgotten race, a key to unlocking the next step in their technological ascendancy. They are wrong. The Signal is not a message, nor even a direct source of the power they seek. The source of the Signal lies deeper within the cosmos, hidden beneath layers of time and space. The Signal is a remnant of something far older, a scar left behind by those who once tried to control the very same forces the Syndicate now plays with. A scar on the galaxy’s memory, a warning from an age when beings beyond comprehension walked the stars and wove reality itself into their designs.
But of course, the Syndicate does not listen to warnings. They only see opportunity.
And so, their experiments continue, accelerating the Unraveling with each step. They do not know, or perhaps they choose not to know, that in tampering with these forces, they are awakening something far worse. Something that should have remained asleep for all eternity.
The Great Old Ones.
Ah, you have heard the name before, no doubt. It has drifted through the darker corners of myth and legend, whispered by those who still remember the old stories—the ones told before the rise of the Consortium, before the Alliance. But the Great Old Ones are not mere stories. They are not gods, nor demons, nor spirits. They are… echoes. Echoes of a time when reality was fluid, when the laws that bind us now were nothing more than suggestions. They are not bound by time as we understand it. They exist beyond it, and within it.
They are stirring.
For millennia, they have slumbered, their presence forgotten by all but a few scattered cults who worship them as divine beings. But the cultists, like the Syndicate, understand so little. They do not realise that the Great Old Ones care nothing for worship, for power, or even for existence as we know it. They feed on chaos—on the breakdown of order, the collapse of time. And the Syndicate, in their arrogance, is providing them with a feast.
Even now, the time distortions grow more frequent. Ships vanish into thin air, only to reappear centuries later—or earlier. Entire star systems flicker in and out of existence, like candles struggling against a strong wind. These are the signs of the Unraveling. And soon, very soon, it will be too late to stop it.
The leaders of the galaxy do not see it, though. They are preoccupied with their wars, their politics, their power struggles. The Consortium is crumbling from within, its most influential members vying for control in the face of their own decline. The Alliance, ever the opportunist, sees this as their moment to strike, to finally bring down their ancient enemy. And the Syndicate, in their cold, calculating way, pulls the strings from behind the scenes, quietly accelerating the chaos for their own gain.
But they are all blind.
None of them see the true threat. None of them hear the echoes of the Great Old Ones, calling from the dark places of the universe. None of them understand the significance of the Signal or the danger of the Unraveling.
None, except for a few.
There are those whose paths have been set, though they do not know it yet. The Voyager—he chases the Signal, driven by an obsession he cannot fully explain. To him, it is not just a puzzle to be solved, but a question of identity, of purpose. He seeks answers in the farthest reaches of the galaxy, answers that elude him with every step. And then there is the Dreamer, a woman haunted by visions she cannot control, visions that show her the future, the past, and everything in between. She is not bound by time as others are, but neither is she free of it. Her visions are growing darker, more chaotic, as the Unraveling spreads. She sees worlds consumed by madness, entire civilisations falling into ruin. And she knows, deep down, that her fate is tied to the very forces that threaten to destroy the galaxy.
They do not know it yet, but they are the galaxy’s last hope.
And perhaps its greatest danger.
For they walk the path of the Dying Light, a path that leads not to salvation, but to the final collapse of everything. They are bound by forces they cannot see, cannot understand. Their choices will shape the future—or unmake it.
I have seen this before, of course. I have seen the rise and fall of countless empires, the birth and death of stars. I have seen entire galaxies burn, consumed by their own ambition. And I will see it again, for time is a wheel, always turning, always returning. The end of one cycle is merely the beginning of another. But this time… this time feels different.
There is a weight to the air, a tension that grows with every passing moment. The stars themselves seem to shudder, as if they know what is coming. As if they, too, fear the Unraveling.
And so, I watch. I remember. For that is my role, my purpose. I do not interfere. I do not choose. I am merely a witness to the passing of time, to the dying of the light.
And the light is dying.
The stars will fade. The worlds will fall silent. And all that will remain are the echoes.
Echoes in eternity.