The automaton's eyes flickered to life, a dim golden glow in the desolate twilight.

  Her first breath was not of air, but of silence.

  She lay still, feeling the weight of time settled upon her. Vines curled around her limbs, rust clung to the crevices of her joints. The world had moved on without her. How long had she been here?

  Slowly, her fingers twitched, then curled into the soft earth beneath her. She pressed a hand to the ground and pushed herself upright. Metal plates groaned as she moved, long unused servos protesting the sudden demand for function.

  She rose to her feet. The field stretched before her, a graveyard of iron. Once, this place had been alive with war. She saw it in the twisted remains of war machines, in the shattered banners that lay limp in the dirt, in the brittle bones still encased in rusted armor. The wind stirred, whistling through empty helms, rattling forgotten weapons like ghostly echoes of a battle long past.

  She took a step forward. Then another.

  Her feet pressed into the damp soil, and with each movement, she felt something. An absence where memory should be. She knew how to walk, how to move, how to function. But she did not know who she was.

  She wandered through the ruins of the battlefield, her golden eyes sweeping across the remnants of something she should have understood.

  And then she saw them. Figures like her.

  Their bodies lay in the mud, tangled in overgrowth, their metal frames rusted and broken. Some were missing limbs, others had gaping holes where something had torn through them with immense force. Their eyes, those that remained, were dark.

  She crouched beside one, brushing away the moss that had crept over its chestplate. The engravings were faint, but she traced them with her fingers, recognizing their intricate design. A name? A designation? Nothing stirred in her mind. No recognition. No familiarity. Just silence.

  She sat back on her heels, staring at the lifeless husk before her. She pressed a hand to her own chest, feeling the faint hum of power still coursing through her frame.

  Why was she awake…when they were not?

  The automaton rose from where she knelt, casting one last glance at the fallen figure. They had names, once. Purposes. So did she. She just didn’t remember them.

  The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and rusted steel. She stepped forward, her movements slow, methodical, as if each stride was a test of her own existence. The battlefield stretched endlessly, as far as she could see.

  She saw swords buried hilt-deep in the mud, their once-glorious craftsmanship dulled by time. Shields lay cracked and splintered, their insignias faded beyond recognition. Spears jutted from the earth like broken fangs, banners still clinging to their shafts in tattered defiance.

  But it was the bodies, the ones of former flesh, that caught her attention next.

  Men and women, long turned to little more than bone and scrap. Some still clutched weapons in skeletal fingers, as if even in death they had refused to surrender. Helmets stared at her with hollow eyes. Armor had decayed, rusted and broken, but she could still see the craftsmanship, the telltale signs of artistry from different forges.

  She recognized none of them. Had she fought them? Had she fought with them?

  Her fingers brushed against a discarded war banner, the fabric stiff and crumbling at the edges. The sigil was unrecognizable, worn away by rain and time, but the golden thread still caught the dying sunlight, glinting faintly in the breeze.

  Who flew this banner? Whose cause had it served? And had she marched beneath it?

  She walked onward.

  Further ahead, she came across a line of automaton bodies slumped against an ancient siege engine, a massive construct of wood and metal now collapsed under its own weight. They had died there, shoulder to shoulder, as if they had made their final stand. Some still had weapons in their grasp. Axes, halberds, swords, tools of war now forever still.

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  She tilted her head. One of them had something in its hand.

  She knelt, prying open the rusted fingers. A small, metal insignia lay in the palm, a symbol she did not recognize. She turned it over in her own hand, running her thumb over the grooves. It was familiar. Not in a way that brought memory, but in a way that stirred something deep within her frame. A pulse, an instinct, a recognition without understanding.

  She kept it.

  As she rose once more, she cast a final glance at the automaton resting against the ruined machine. A part of her wondered if they had names. If someone had mourned them. If she had known them.

  But the wind carried no answers. Only silence.

  She walked, though she did not know where she was going. The battlefield stretched far, but the desolation had an end. She could see the trees beyond the ruins of war, tall and dark against the horizon, untouched by the conflict that had claimed so many.

  Her feet crunched softly against the dirt and scattered debris, her senses taking in everything. The whisper of the wind, the distant call of a bird, the creak of rusted metal shifting under its own weight. And then, another sound.

  Small. Quick. Skittering.

  Her head snapped toward the noise, her lenses adjusting in a flicker of arcane light. Movement. Something darting between the rusted remains of a broken spear, slipping into the shadow of a shattered helmet.

  She took a step forward, carefully. Another. Then crouched, scanning.

  A flick of a tail.

  A tiny, gray-furred body dashed from one piece of debris to another. The automaton froze, watching as the creature, small, warm, and alive, picked at something near a rusted gauntlet.

  She had seen death, felt the weight of time pressing upon this place. But this was life.

  The creature twitched, ears perking up. It saw her. It ran.

  Without thinking, she moved. Chasing.

  The mouse dashed between old weapons, over broken shields, beneath a rusted warhorn. She followed, her movements swift yet careful, adjusting her steps so she did not crush the creature beneath her weight.

  It vanished into a hollowed-out breastplate, peeking out only for a moment before darting toward the twisted wreck of an ancient chariot. She moved faster.

  The mouse leaped from the chariot to the remains of a fallen banner, scrambling up the fabric with quick little claws. The automaton caught the edge of the banner and lifted it slightly, watching as the creature clung to the ruined cloth, its tiny paws trembling. It was trapped.

  She tilted her head. She could reach out. Could grab it. Could close her fingers around the small, warm body and feel life against her own lifeless frame. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she lowered the banner gently, resting it back upon the ground.

  The mouse hesitated. Then, slowly, it scurried forward, sniffing at her metal fingers. It paused, uncertain.

  And then, it climbed onto her hand.

  She remained still.

  The creature was fragile. Small. She could feel the faint tremor of its body, the rapid beat of its tiny heart. It was nothing like her. It was warmth, breath, and blood. And yet, it did not fear her.

  She raised her hand, bringing the mouse closer to her faceplate. Golden eyes met golden eyes.

  She did not have a name. She did not have a purpose. But perhaps, for now, she had this.

  Having made a new acquaintance, she wandered. For how long, she did not know. The sky shifted above her, from the cool gray of morning to the molten glow of late afternoon, casting long shadows over the field. The mouse perched on her shoulder now, nestled against the curve of her collar plate, its tiny heart a steady rhythm against the silence of her own.

  She walked with no destination, only moving forward, her mind absorbing every detail. The way the wind stirred the brittle grass, the distant shapes of birds circling high above, the remains of war slowly yielding to the creeping grasp of time and nature.

  The battlefield thinned as she continued, rusted relics and shattered bones giving way to rocky hills and sparse trees. The air smelled different here, like damp stone and old wood, mingled with something else. Something faintly familiar.

  Ahead, nestled in the curve of a low valley, a structure loomed. She halted.

  It was old. Its once-proud stone walls were now cracked and weathered, vines curling through the fractures like veins through withered skin. The roof sagged in places, worn by centuries of rain and neglect. Moss covered the edges of an arched entrance, its wooden doors slightly ajar, swaying gently in the wind.

  A monastery. The word surfaced in her mind like a long-buried memory. She did not know why she knew it; she only knew that she did.

  She stared, unmoving. The mouse stirred against her neck, tiny claws gripping the metal of her shoulder. It, too, seemed to sense something.

  And then there was movement. A shadow, fleeting, near the entrance.

  She saw a figure, just for a moment, before it disappeared within the ruined halls. Tall. Cloaked. A wide-brimmed hat, dipping low over their face. And on their back, something long, wrapped in cloth, strapped securely in place.

  She tilted her head. Not a phantom. Not a trick of the light. A person.

  Her fingers flexed at her sides. The first living being she had seen since waking.

  The monastery stood before her, its doors open, waiting.

  She took a step forward.