Once, in the violet-hued twilight of a world called Khyra-Vel, there lived a people known only in whispers beyond their borders: the Vexari.
They were not born of flesh in the usual way. Long before the first mountain cooled and the oceans learned to dream, the planet’s core had sung a strange, low-frequency lament. That song seeped upward through crystal veins, through black soil, through the marrow of ancient trees. Where the song met lightning-struck ironwood, the first Vexari took shape—not grown, not hatched, but remembered into being.
They looked almost human at a distance: tall, long-limbed, skin the color of storm clouds reflecting fire. But come closer and the illusion frayed. Their eyes were compound mosaics, each facet holding a different hour of the day. Their hair moved even without wind, threading itself into tiny, deliberate patterns like living script. Most unsettling of all were the thin, silvery lines that ran beneath their skin—rivers of liquid starlight that pulsed faster whenever they felt strong emotion, or whenever they lied.
The Vexari did not speak with voices. They vexed. A thought, a memory, a half-formed fear would leap from one mind to another like static jumping between copper wires. To be in a room full of them was to feel every unsaid word pressing against your temples. Most outsiders went mad within hours. The few who survived learned to think in rigid, geometric patterns, building mental walls brick by brick until the onslaught dulled to a bearable hum.
For centuries the Vexari kept to themselves. Their cities grew inside colossal hollowed-out world-trees, spiraling upward and downward at once, floors becoming ceilings, gravity politely optional. They wove light into tapestries that remembered every face that had ever looked upon them. They sang to the core again, coaxing up fresh veins of song-metal they fashioned into blades that could cut sorrow from a heart without drawing blood.
Then came the strangers.
A ship of cold iron and colder ambition fell from the sky. Its crew called themselves the Reclaimers—humans mostly, though augmented until little original flesh remained. They had heard rumors of a world where thoughts could be mined like ore. They brought machines that listened, machines that recorded, machines that stole. The Reclaimers wanted to bottle vexation and sell it as a drug to the bored nobility of a dozen core systems. Eternal distraction. Perfect obedience. A mind too full to rebel.
The first Vexari they captured was named Sylith-9 (the number was not a rank but the number of times she had successfully forgotten her own name and then found it again—a prized talent among her kind).
They strapped her to a chair of braided tungsten. Electrodes kissed the silver rivers beneath her skin. The machines drank.
At first she gave them only silence.
Then she gave them everything.
Every childhood terror, every lover’s betrayal, every quiet moment she had ever doubted the core-song still loved her. The Reclaimers’ minds filled like cisterns during monsoon. They laughed. They wept. They tore at their own faces trying to scratch the memories out. Within minutes the entire boarding party was curled on the deck, rocking, whispering apologies to people who had died centuries earlier on distant worlds.
Sylith-9 stood. The silver lines under her skin now blazed white-hot. She walked among the broken crew, touching each one lightly on the forehead. Into their minds she placed a single, perfect image: the moment just before birth, when every possibility still exists and none have yet hurt you.
They never recovered. But they also never died. They simply sat, smiling softly, cradling that one safe memory while the rest of their selves slowly dissolved.
Word spread.
The Reclaimers’ sponsors sent more ships. The Vexari answered in kind.
They did not fight with weapons. They fought with stories.
They vexed entire fleets with visions of wives who had never existed, children who died in wars that never happened, futures so beautiful the crews would rather die than wake from them. They vexed navigators with false stars until ships drifted forever among reefs of dark matter. They vexed admirals with the certain knowledge that victory had already been achieved—so why keep fighting?
In the end the armada limped home, half its vessels empty, the other half carrying crews who no longer remembered their own names, only that something infinitely precious had once lived inside them and was now gone.
Khyra-Vel was left alone again.
But the Vexari changed.
They began to wonder if solitude had been a mercy or a cage.
Some drifted away from the world-tree cities, seeking the edges of known space. They hired themselves out as interrogators, grief counselors, memory sculptors. A single Vexari could unravel a warlord’s lifetime of lies in an afternoon, or rebuild a shattered mind so skillfully that even the cracks became part of the design.
Others stayed behind, singing new songs to the core—louder, more questioning songs.
And on quiet nights, when the violet twilight returns, travelers still report seeing tall figures standing at the edge of the jungle, silver lines pulsing softly, watching the stars.
They do not call out.
They simply vex.
And if you listen very carefully, you might feel the lightest brush against your thoughts:
You are remembered.
You are not alone.
Would you like to remember yourself, too?
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 