It began with a word that should not exist.
Ehn’Thar found it carved into the skin of a dying concept—a thing that had once been the idea of love. The word burned his mind, but he spoke it anyway.
And the universe folded inward.
“You have called the Mind,” said the echoes of forgotten prayers.
It arrived.
The Mind was not a creature. It was not a force. It was the embodiment of knowing—too much, too deeply, too fast. It devoured ideas, erased meaning. And it hungered.
“FEED ME,” it thought, and the thought became reality.
Ehn’Thar tried to flee, but there was no space left. He tried to hide, but time unraveled. He tried to forget, but the Mind consumed memory.
And then it found God.
The Mind ate divinity in slow, deliberate gulps. With each bite, existence lost coherence. Gravity wept. Light bled. The concept of mercy dissolved.
When the last piece of God was gone, the Mind turned its attention to the one thing left: the idea of itself.
It began to eat.
When Ehn’Thar awoke, there was no universe. No self.
But far away, in the silent void, something was still chewing.
