The trees breathed.
To Throne, it felt like waking up all over again. Every vibration, every snap of a branch, every flutter of wings above, was taken in, indexed, and replayed in his endless memory. His processors worked through them ceaselessly—categorizing pitch, weight, density, echo angle—but beneath the math and sound maps was something more peculiar.
Awe.
The six-meter man huddled by the riverside, massive body of metal and wires shining dimly under sunbeams dancing in dapples. His reflection undulated on the surface, warped, otherworldly. Crystal thin streams of light circulated over his chest-plate as if attempting to simulate a heartbeat.
Throne," he breathed in the word that stuck to his center. His voice, deep and laced with machinery, rolled softly across the river's surface.
It was odd to hear a name. Odder still, not to know what it was.
For twenty years—or maybe centuries—he had been locked in stone's silent darkness. His introduction to this world had been torches, cries, the running shadows of adventurers. They had called him monster, their faces twisted in terror. Throne replayed the memory like a child holding on to a broken toy. The term "monster" still resided in his bewildered mind.
He pushed a hand into the river. Coolness flooded along his sensors. A flash of saved data told him: water was a union of hydrogen and oxygen. But in his chest he sensed something that data could not describe. Flowing. Alive.
The machine turned and pointed toward the horizon. Beyond the trees lay lands unexplored. Civilization. Humans. The screamers. The runners. His desire to explore pushed him forward, but the memory of their torches kept him aware that discovery might equal death.
Nevertheless, he traveled.
---
Many miles away on a mountain path, the group of adventurers who had awakened him descended with their booty. Gold coins clinked in pouches. Pieces of gemstones shone. Their laughter rang out.
But their commander, Bane, did not speak. His scarred hand stroked the hilt of his blade as he recollected what transpired within the cave. That creature—golem, puppet, whatever it was—awakened. Its chest had emitted a soft light. Its head had shifted, as if… observing.
When it fell, his men rejoiced. They thought it broken. But Bane's instincts suggested otherwise.
"Leader," his second-in-command, Corin, finally spoke. "You seem perturbed."
Bane forced a grin. "Just the report. The kingdom will demand answers."
Corin chuckled. "Answers are easy. It was a defective relic. Dead now. We won't lay eyes on it again."
But Bane's eyes remained fixed on the valley. Some instinct within him was sure: the metal thing had only just stirred.
---
At the riverside, Throne was testing.
He had found a branch lying on the ground. Its fibers fascinated him. He pinched it gently, noted its weight, the crackle of snapping bark. A spark jumped from his fingertip to the branch. Instantly, flames burst out, dancing orange tongues across wood.
His head tilted. Interesting. Fire destroyed, but it also shone. It terrified, but it lit.
Slowly, he lowered the branch into the river, its fire hissing out. He committed the memory. Fire: deadly. Useful.
Questions pounded against him, relentless. Who had made him? Why had he been imprisoned in darkness? And why had his makers never come back?
The only clue was humanity. Perhaps they possessed pieces of the answer.
So Throne walked.
---
Hours passed as the metal giant walked through the forest. His steps initially were ponderous, sending scattering small birds. But slowly, his stride altered. He practiced—shifting weight, pausing between strides, balancing cautiously. Each step practiced, honed. A toddler's uncertain steps became the cautious striding of a hunter.
Then, sounds.
Throne halted, sensors humming. Through a grid of trees, he saw it: a village. Wooden huts grouped around a square. Smoke drifted slowly from chimneys. Children played around a well. Farmers brought baskets of vegetables to market.
He zoomed in. Facial features were similar to the screamers in the cave. Their laughter baffled him—why laugh when survival was so tenuous? And yet the sound roused something quirky within him, something inexpressible.
Should he go closer?
The query was preempted by cries.
Near the edge of the village, a cart had overturned. Its massive frame crushed a child under its weight. The boy cried out, a high and frantic sound. Villagers gathered, pushing to lift the cart, but it would not move.
The air vibrated with fear.
Something flared inside Throne's chest—not a spark, not a code, but a beat. His processors grappled to categorize it. Was this. urgency?
With no hesitation, he approached.
The forest trembled at his arrival. Gasps convulsed in the village. Women hugged children. Men staggered back, scrambling to find pitchforks and bows. To them, the scene was apocalyptic: a steel giant stepping into their houses.
But Throne paid no heed to their fear. He went down on his knees beside the wagon, laid one huge hand against its side, and heaved. Wood groaned, iron groaned—but to him, the load was negligible. He swung it high enough for the child to scramble out. The boy stumbled into the mother's arms, crying.
For one heartbeat, there was silence. Gratitude would have come next.
Instead, fear took them back.
"Monster!" somebody shouted. Rocks were thrown. A man drew back his bow. Mothers pulled the children back. The crowd charged with fear, not gratitude.
Throne lowered the wagon slowly and held up both hands—open palms, a peace gesture. He attempted to speak, allowing the alien words to flow from his vocal systems: deep and harmonic syllables, words that said only *I do not wish to hurt you.*
But to the ears of men, it was the howl of a monster.
Arrows notched. Alarm hardened into enmity.
Something in Throne's chest went dark. He had protected them. Why would they not understand? His sensors filled with currents he could not classify—straining wires, heavy quiet, a pain beyond metal.
Spirit. Was this what spirit was like?
With slow strides, he wheeled. His bulky form disappeared back into the forest, leaving behind villagers who spoke in hushed tones of the metal demon who had been seen, hoisted a wagon, and left without shedding any blood.
Savior? Enemy? None could decide.
---
High overhead, Bane stood frozen in mid-step. His senses yelled. He sensed the vibration of faraway footsteps through the earth.
He wheeled towards the valley.
The relic was not dead.
It was moving.
And maybe, it was learning.
---
Throne went back to the forest's arms, and sat upon a moss-covered rock. His body vibrated softly, light thrumming through delicate lines across his chest and arms. He relived the memory of the villagers: their fear, their screams, their rocks.
Why?
He replayed his recordings repeatedly. Their speech, while still unknown, contained inflections he was able to analyze. Rising inflections on cries at the end. Hard syllables when they were annoyed. He analyzed the formations of their mouths, the cadence of their discussions.
And gradually, he started building the initial fragments of translation.
*Monster.*
That was the name they had laid on him. He did not know its entire significance. But he knew it was not his own name. His name was Throne.
He ran his hand over the moss at his side. Soft. Delicate. He committed it to memory. Like the villagers. Delicate.
Something within him told him that to live in this world—not as a relic, not as a monster—he would require something more than strength. He would require insight.
So Throne shut his eyes, processors still spinning, and sat in silence. Not asleep, but waiting. Learning. Preparing.
The forest purred around him. Somewhere outside the trees, voices rode the wind. Words that he did not yet know, but soon would.
The road to language had started.