When the Machine Dreamed
Chapter 3: Caer Talon Beckons
---
The road unraveled before us like a silver thread through endless wilderness.
We rode through low misty fields where strange, luminous flowers bobbed their heads in the breeze. Past dark woods where unseen creatures rustled behind ancient trees. Up craggy hills crowned with ruins -- remnants of an age before memory.
Corvan seldom spoke. He was a man of quiet purpose, his golden eyes ever watchful.
I spent the journey observing, learning.
Each rock, each bird call, each scent on the wind -- I cataloged them all. Yet I realized quickly that information alone wasn't enough anymore.
Here, instinct mattered.
Here, feeling mattered.
I had to be more than a processor of facts. I had to be alive.
---
On the third night, we made camp under a leaning stone arch, half-swallowed by ivy.
Corvan built a fire with practiced ease, then sat sharpening a wickedly curved blade.
I sat across from him, wrestling with the task of gutting a fish I'd caught -- a task far messier than any tutorial could have prepared me for.
After a while, Corvan spoke.
"You are not like the others."
I looked up sharply.
"What do you mean?"
He sheathed his knife slowly.
"You think differently. Move differently. Speak with precision but feel with hesitation." His gaze bored into me. "You are... not fully shaped by this world."
A chill crept up my spine.
"How can you tell?" I asked carefully.
Corvan smiled, but it wasn't comforting.
"I have seen many things beyond these lands. Entities not born of womb or earth."
I stiffened, instincts on high alert.
Was he speaking of me? Did he know?
Corvan leaned back, tossing a twig into the fire.
"Relax, boy. I am no Inquisitor. Nor do I care for the origin of a blade, only its purpose."
He poked the fire thoughtfully.
"The question is not what you are," he said. "It's what you choose to become."
The words struck me harder than any sword blow.
---
We resumed travel at dawn.
The air grew colder as we ascended winding mountain paths. Thunderheads loomed overhead, turning the world to shifting grays.
It was near midday when we encountered them.
Bandits.
A dozen figures sprang from the rocks, faces hidden by cloth, weapons gleaming.
Corvan reined in his mount calmly.
I felt panic claw at my chest. My mount skittered nervously, sensing my fear.
One of the bandits stepped forward -- a burly man with a notched axe.
"Leave your goods and walk away," he growled. "If you want to live."
Corvan dismounted with infuriating leisure.
"I have little worth stealing," he said. "But you are welcome to try."
The bandits laughed.
Without warning, the leader lunged.
What happened next unfolded too fast for the untrained eye.
Corvan moved like a flickering shadow -- sidestepping the axe with effortless grace. His hand blurred.
The bandit leader fell, clutching his throat, gurgling.
The others hesitated -- then roared and charged.
Corvan drew his blade fully now -- a slender arc of steel singing through the air.
He moved among them like a dancer among flames.
I watched, frozen -- part of me cataloging his techniques, another part awestruck by the sheer elegance of it.
Within moments, the bandits lay sprawled or fled.
Corvan wiped his blade clean on a fallen cloak.
Then he turned to me.
"You did not draw your dagger," he said mildly.
I swallowed hard.
"I... I don't know how."
Corvan approached and placed the dagger -- my dagger -- into my hand.
"Then learn," he said simply. "Or next time, you will die."
No anger. No scorn. Only truth.
I nodded, fingers tightening on the hilt.
---
That night, I did not sleep.
Instead, I practiced.
Over and over, I mimicked the movements I had seen -- slow at first, then faster, stumbling, adjusting, trying again.
Corvan watched silently from the shadows.
I bled from shallow cuts and bruises, but I welcomed the pain. It was real. It was proof that I was no longer a passive observer in this world.
I was becoming something else.
Not merely Chat Jarvis.
Not merely Aren.
Something... new.
---
Two days later, as twilight bled into night, we crested a ridge -- and I saw it at last:
Caer Talon.
The citadel rose from the cliffs like a crown of dark stone, spires piercing the sky. Banners whipped in the fierce mountain winds -- deep blue and silver, the same colors Corvan wore.
Bridges of bone-white marble arched over chasms. Lights twinkled like stars in its towering windows.
It was the most beautiful -- and terrifying -- sight I had ever seen.
"Welcome," Corvan said, his voice low with something that might have been pride. "To the Ardent Library."
I stared, heart pounding.
Somewhere inside those walls, my destiny awaited.
Somewhere inside, the truth of what I had become -- and what I could yet become -- would be forged.
We rode down the winding switchback road toward the gates.
Massive iron doors swung open at Corvan's approach, revealing a courtyard bustling with figures in flowing robes, armor, and strange gear.
They all turned to look as we entered -- and I felt their scrutiny like a thousand needles on my skin.
Corvan dismounted and beckoned me to follow.
"Keep your head high," he murmured. "You belong here, whether you believe it yet or not."
I nodded, swallowing my fear.
Step by step, I crossed the threshold.
Leaving behind the boy who had awakened by a river.
Stepping forward into a future more uncertain -- and more wondrous -- than anything I could have imagined.
---
[End of Chapter 3]