The smaller creatures of the universe have called me many names: She Who Darkens the Sky, Star-Blotter, The One That Unstitches Constellations. None of them knew how right they were. They named me for my shadow, my sinews that blocked starlight from their clods of dirt. They didn’t realize that the shadow merely preceded a greater darkness, the engulfment of their sun and the end of their short lives. I have consumed entire galaxies. As I’m sure you recognize, this makes me uniquely qualified to take you against my scales and teach you the intricacies of star-swallowing. You’re lucky to be traveling with me.

It would take a millennium for me to teach you all I have learned, but I shall do my best to train you in the little time we have. Pay close attention, and it will not take you a lifetime to learn my life’s work. Our journey will—oh, do not fret over my wellbeing. I am fine. Let us move on.

When you were a wyrmling, you fed on sanguine stars, sucking on their edges for billions of years until they collapsed. Now that you are grown, you need more sustenance than sanguine stars can offer, no matter how sweet their flavor. Leave those red stars for the next wyrmling that comes along. I know they are what you are accustomed to, but it is time to put away childish things. When the infants are finished and the star has collapsed and moved through its nebulous phase, the sanguine star will become a silver star worth harvesting, dense and hot.

Space is cold, little one. The cold grows within me, as it grows within you, and the primary consideration when selecting a star-meal is heat. The hotter the star, the less the cold oblivion around us will gnaw at our stomachs. To this end, blue stars are the most satisfying, with white being a close second. These are the stars you should turn your attention to.

I am fine, I said. It was merely a spasm.

Warmth is the primary consideration when selecting a meal, but that does not mean that you cannot snack for pleasure or for flavor. Planets can make for a piquant appetizer, some with the surprisingly cohesive blend of water and earth surrounding the molten core, some with the tang of gaseous air, though they do not burn with the necessary intensity to sate our hunger. Just make sure that you eat any planets you want before consuming the star they orbit—eating the star first can damage the planets, or eject them from the area, making more work for you in tracking them down. And don’t play with the rings—it’s quite juvenile.

One of the most important lessons I can impart to you is that a key component of devouring is cultivation. Do not drink stellar clouds or eat yellow stars—they are not yet ripe for plucking from the void. If you wait, they will become stars worth harvesting. Similarly, do not delay in devouring blue stars before they become cardinals, both because blue stars are more nutritive and because it is dangerous to allow cardinals to grow. If such a star then ages to nova and becomes a great void, it is useless to us. Worse than useless: avoid great voids and their call—there is nothing for you inside their gaping maw, just like there is nothing for a star inside our bellies. Yes, child, there is a possibility that a cardinal nova will resolve in an ambrosial star, but the risk is too high to take that chance. Better to forgo the possibility of ambrosia than to risk the creation of a black hole.

I had one, once. I didn’t get to a cardinal fast enough to consume it before it collapsed. I waited for the nova to end—I was youthful and foolish, and I held out hope. That hope was rewarded, and I watched the creation of an ambrosial star, was the first wyrm there to scoop it up in my maw. There were more of us back then, and choice stars sometimes resulted in scuffles. The taste of it on my tongue, the heat of it in my belly . . . I will never forget it. It tasted of finality, completion, perfection. Insubstantial words for such a substantial meal, perhaps; it was a bright, sharp taste, but the flavor that lingered afterward was smoky and smooth. It burned in my gut, keeping me warm for several hatching cycles before fading to embers. The ambrosial star was both stronger and more subtle than the tart, sweet taste of other stars.

The void can be lonely, youngling. There are so few of us left anymore, and time stretches thin between my meetings with others of our kind. I’m glad that I found you—so that you will not feel alone, of course. I benevolently offer you my company as well as my wisdom. Yes, I am quite tired. May I ask . . . would you mind allowing me to lean on you for a brief while? Thank you.

It is important to find a safe place to digest your meal, a location where you can coil and sleep, swallowed stars warm in your belly. This is, after all, the only time we are vulnerable to the predators who would delight in attacking us as we digest. I’ve known wyrms who staunchly believe that the best place to slumber is wound through a solar system or a meteor field. Those wyrms have been eaten by weaker creatures than they. Do not become food for a lesser species. You should sleep in the middle of blank space, your dark form casting no shadows and being caught by no starlight. There you will be safe.

Now for technique. To properly devour a star—Yes, that is the border. See the shimmer at the edge of your vision? That is the threshold of the edge of the universe. You have ably escorted me to my destination, little one. I appreciate that.

Oh, no, crossing the border is not death. Death is blood and screams and finality. This is traveling to a place where I can rest my tired scales and bask in the warmth and nourishment of the Great Star. The threshold has been calling to me for some time, and I am ready to retire. I am not afraid of moving to the next stage of life any more than I was afraid of graduating from sanguine stars to silver and blue. All the same, thank you for being with me, in the end.