Art stuttered, his lips trembling. "W-What do you mean by that? How could these… beings make the universe—"
But the moment the words left his mouth, he faltered.
Silence crept in, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He realized how idiotic the question sounded. Why couldn't they have created the universe? What did he actually know about them? About the cosmos? About any of this?
His breath hitched. The weight of his ignorance settled like a stone in his chest.
Fyudor, who had been watching him with that infuriating calmness, let out a snicker. It wasn't mocking. More amused. "You're smart, Art. Smarter than most. You should've figured this out from the beginning. Anyway… like I said, these Great Old Ones they're the architects of everything. They made the world, the stars, the void. That's the truth."
He paused for a moment, leaning forward.
