The orbit shifted.
It was a small deviation, almost imperceptible. But the consequences rippled across the lattice of existence. Entire epochs folded inward. The notion of “before” lost its meaning. Stars screamed, though no one could hear them. Except Yhrr.
He stood at the Event Horizon of Xo’Nathil—a point where thought itself became matter and ideas bent light. He watched as the object moved—a shape that was not a shape, a form that rejected form. His mind tried to grasp it and failed.
“Do not perceive it,” warned the voice from the fractures in reality.
But it was too late.
Yhrr’s eyes—if they were still eyes—saw the unspeakable orbit. And his understanding of self shattered. He became moments, scattered across the cosmos. He was the birth of a star and the death of a dream. He was the laughter of a forgotten god.
And through it all, the object continued its impossible path.
“Correct the orbit,” said the voice. “Or everything ends.”
But Yhrr had no hands. No will. No time.
“You must choose,” the voice insisted.
So he reached—across dimensions, through shattered meaning—and moved the object.
And the universe collapsed.
When Yhrr awoke, he was alone. The stars were silent. Time had stopped.
But the orbit… the orbit was perfect.
