Echoes of the Ineffable

Chapter One: Fractured Memories

The universe was a canvas of endless stars, but most beings never saw it that way. To them, it was a machine—cold, rigid, predictable. Every planet, every society, governed by an unseen order, an ancient hierarchy designed by entities that existed beyond the comprehension of the common lifeforms. These beings were called the Wills—and they were everything.

The Wills shaped existence itself, maintaining a rigid caste system that governed every aspect of life. At the top were the Divine, god-like entities who were free to shape the universe as they pleased. Below them, the Elevated carried out their will—enforcers and rulers with power beyond measure. Beneath them, the Crafted were created to serve, their lives engineered for specific purposes: soldiers, laborers, builders. And at the very bottom were the Subjugated, the lowest caste, little more than living tools—forgotten, crushed under the weight of the system.

But even in the darkest corners of this rigid hierarchy, there were whispers. Whispers of rebellion, of awakening. Whispers of forgotten pasts.

Viora was one such whisper.

A Crafted, once a tool, now a broken machine. She had no memory of her creation, no recollection of the life she once lived. The Wills had ensured that. Her mind was a blank slate, wiped clean and rewritten to serve the greater order. She had been built to build, forged to serve, with no agency—no will of her own.

Her appearance was unremarkable—slim, athletic, with jet-black hair that fell in a straight line to her shoulders. Her eyes, once a vibrant green, were now dulled by years of mindless labor. She was tall, standing at just over six feet, with hands calloused by the work she had been forced to do.

Her days were spent in the deep, cold factories of Maddened World, constructing war machines for the Elevated. The metal walls of the facility were always cold, the air thick with the scent of oil and rust. Every movement was mechanical, every task a command. No room for thought. No room for rebellion.

But that had changed. The whispers had started, at first faint and distant, but they grew louder as days passed.

Viora didn’t know what was happening to her. She didn’t know why her mind was beginning to c***k, or why she was suddenly remembering—or imagining—things she couldn’t explain. Bits and pieces. Glimpses of another life. Of a time before. A time when she wasn’t a worker. A time when she wasn’t crafted.

She could feel it—something inside her, something that didn’t belong to the mindless machine they had made her into. It was like a pulse, an echo, coming from the deepest corners of her consciousness. Something real. Something alive. But the longer she ignored it, the harder it became to suppress.

Viora's fingers hovered above the cold, metal control panel, the hum of machinery around her strangely soothing. The task at hand was simple: Assemble. Construct. Obey. That was all she was meant for, all she had ever known.

But as her hands moved mechanically, something flickered in her mind. A glimmer of something before the dark, a memory of another life. The sensation was unfamiliar—disorienting.

"Viora…" The whisper came again, soft but undeniable.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The voice wasn’t a part of the machine's commands. It wasn’t part of her programming. It was her name. Her real name. The one they had erased.

Her fingers tightened against the cold metal, and for a brief moment, the sound of the factory faded. She was not always this way.

Ravak's voice broke through her thoughts: “Back to work, Craft.”

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. The weight of his presence filled the space between them.

The Elevated. Ravak was a living, breathing enforcer of the Wills’ will. Tall, imposing, his red uniform a beacon of power and authority. His presence alone made her stomach twist with discomfort.

“I’ve told you, Craft,” Ravak continued, his tone as cold as the factory walls, “the Wills don’t care about your thoughts. Don’t waste time thinking. Do your job. Or else.”

Viora’s chest tightened. Or else. The words were meant to control, to break her. But something in her rebelled against them. Something deep inside.

“I am not your tool.” The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them. The sound of her voice felt alien, as if it didn’t belong to her.

Ravak's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “What did you say?” He took a step forward, his voice lowering, darkening with authority. “You forget your place. You're a Crafted. Nothing more.”

For a moment, Viora stood still. Her fingers clenched into fists, her mind racing. She had been made to serve, made to obey. But… was that all she was?

“No.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “I was more than this. Before.”

Ravak’s gaze flickered for a moment, his confusion evident despite his control. “You were nothing, Craft. You were created for a purpose. To serve. To build. You were never anything more.”

Viora’s hands trembled. Memories flashed—faint, fleeting. A family. A home. Tharion, her world of shining cities and endless skies.

Her chest tightened. "I was Divine."

Ravak’s face hardened in disbelief. “Lies. You were a tool. You were nothing.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice shaking with a fierce, new energy. “I was not nothing. I was me.”

Ravak’s eyes grew colder, and his hand moved to the hilt of his blade. "You’re not what you think you are, Craft. You’re a tool created by the Wills. And you will obey. Or you will die."

Viora stepped back, her heart pounding. But this time, the fear didn’t paralyze her. It fueled her. She had been Divine—and now she had the chance to reclaim it.

“I was something,” she said, her voice louder now, her chest swelling with defiance. "And I will not be your tool any longer."

Ravak’s eyes darkened, his expression now a mask of fury. “You forget your place. You were nothing. And if you continue to defy the Wills, I will remind you.”

The tension between them thickened. Viora’s pulse raced as she stared into Ravak’s cold, calculating eyes. There was no turning back now.

“I may have been nothing,” she said, her voice breaking, “but I am something now.”

Ravak stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “You’ll regret this, Craft.”

But Viora didn’t back down. For the first time, she could feel the stirrings of power deep inside her—a power that didn’t belong to the Wills. It was her own.

And the machine she had been would be shattered.

The factory air was thick with tension, a dull hum of machinery surrounding them, almost suffocating in its monotony. Viora’s pulse raced as she faced Ravak, the fear she had buried beneath years of servitude now clawing its way to the surface. He had seen it, hadn’t he? The flicker in her movements, the c***k in her mind—the spark of rebellion. She could feel it now, just beneath her skin, a pulsing force, something ancient that wanted to break free. But it was too early. She wasn’t ready.

Ravak's dark eyes narrowed as he took a step forward, blade gleaming in the harsh factory lights.

"You’re delusional," he spat, his voice a cold, biting growl. "You think you're something more? You’re nothing but a Crafted—nothing more than a tool built to serve. Remember that."

Viora gritted her teeth, her mind swirling with confusion. The power was there, surging within her, but it was still untamed. The memories, the fragments, they were growing stronger. But they were still hazy—like half-formed dreams.

“I am not your tool,” she said, her voice steady, though her hands trembled slightly.

Ravak's lips twisted into a mocking smile. "A tool that forgets its place..."

Without warning, he lunged at her, his movements sharp, precise. The sound of metal slicing through the air was deafening. Viora barely managed to dodge the first strike, but she stumbled as her body moved sluggishly, the power inside her still locked away, refusing to come fully to the surface.

“You will obey,” Ravak hissed, his blade slashing at her again. Viora was forced to step back, her breath quickening.

Her mind screamed at her to fight back, to release the power within, but every movement was sluggish, every instinct dulled by years of conditioning. She wasn’t the same, not yet—not fully. And Ravak’s speed, his experience—he was too much.

The blade cut across her arm, a deep gash opening up along her skin. The pain was sharp, biting, and Viora gasped, stumbling back. The power inside her pulsed again, but this time it felt more like a desperate plea than a command. She gritted her teeth, trying to summon it, but her body was still bound by the chains of her mindless servitude.

Ravak sneered, stepping closer. “You’re nothing.” His blade hovered near her throat, a menacing promise.

“No…” Viora whispered, her voice strained as the blood dripped from her arm. She stumbled once more, falling to her knees. Her vision blurred, not just from the pain, but from the mental fog that clouded her thoughts.

Ravak stood over her, watching with cold satisfaction. “This is where your rebellion ends, Craft. You’ve failed. You’ll never be anything more.”

Viora’s chest heaved as she looked up at him, her breath shallow, her body aching. The factory seemed to spin around her, the sounds of the machines now distant and hollow. She was broken. Defeated.

She had fought, but it wasn’t enough.