In the mystical kingdom of Eldarion, where arcane magic and primitive machinery coexisted in uneasy harmony, there lived an inventor named Orlov. Deep within the shadowy, mist-laden woods near the town of Caledwen, Orlov’s workshop stood—a modest stone structure overgrown with ivy, its chimney perpetually puffing smoke. The villagers whispered about the reclusive inventor, calling him a madman who dabbled in unnatural arts. Few dared approach his domain, fearing the rumored "metal monsters" that lurked within.
But Orlov was not mad. He was a dreamer, a visionary.
Years of tinkering, spell-weaving, and sleepless nights culminated in his greatest creation: Melissa. Unlike the crude constructs powered by basic spells, Melissa was a masterpiece. Her body was crafted from enchanted steel, polished to a silver sheen, and engraved with delicate runes that glowed faintly when her energy core pulsed. Her joints moved with the fluidity of life, and her face, though unmistakably artificial, carried a serene beauty. Her sapphire-like eyes, powered by crystallized mana, glimmered with an almost human curiosity.
She wasn’t just a machine. She was Orlov’s magnum opus—his daughter.
Orlov didn’t see Melissa as an automaton meant to serve or protect. Instead, he envisioned her as a being who could bridge the gap between humanity and the magical wonders of creation. From the moment he activated her, he treated her not as a machine but as a child, a soul waiting to be nurtured.
He taught her the way humans laughed, cried, and dreamed. In the mornings, they tended the workshop garden together, with Melissa carefully transplanting herbs and flowers under Orlov’s patient instruction. In the afternoons, Orlov would read aloud from ancient tomes, teaching her the poetry of life: the soaring love of the stars, the melancholy of autumn winds, and the resilience of those who lived through pain.
“Emotions are a language, Melissa,” Orlov would say, his voice soft but firm. “Though you may not feel them now, you will one day understand their power.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
At night, the workshop was filled with the gentle strumming of a lute, its melodies resonating with the faint hum of Melissa’s energy core. Orlov showed her how to pluck the strings with precision and grace, and though her movements were calculated at first, over time they became imbued with an undefinable artistry.
Despite their isolation, Melissa’s world was warm and filled with purpose. Orlov was her guide, her anchor, and her family.
Yet, as the years passed, Orlov began to falter. His once steady hands grew shaky, and his voice lost its strength. Melissa noticed the changes, but her programming didn’t allow her to comprehend mortality.
One evening, as the first frost of winter crept across the land, Orlov sat by the fire, his hands clasped over Melissa’s metallic fingers. “You are my legacy, Melissa,” he whispered, his breath shallow. “More than any invention or spell. You are... my heart.”
Melissa tilted her head, her crystalline eyes glowing softly. “I do not understand, Father.”
“You will,” he said, smiling faintly. “In time, you will.”
That night, Orlov passed away peacefully in his chair. Melissa sat by his side, unmoving, her sensors scanning for signs of life that would never return. When she could no longer detect a pulse, she attempted to repair him, as she would any broken mechanism. She retrieved her tools, rewired the heart monitor she had built for him, and cast rudimentary repair spells Orlov had taught her.
But no matter how advanced her design, no matter how deep her programming, Melissa could not fix the one who had created her.
The next day, the villagers discovered Orlov’s lifeless body and Melissa standing vigil by his side. Rumors spread quickly, fueled by fear and ignorance. To them, Melissa wasn’t a grieving daughter but a soulless machine—an abomination that had outlived its master.
“That thing doesn’t belong here!” a villager shouted as a mob gathered outside the workshop. “Orlov’s magic was dangerous, and now his monster will bring ruin to us all!”
Melissa, confused and vulnerable, was powerless to resist as the mob stormed the workshop. They torched Orlov’s beloved books and smashed his inventions, their fear driving their cruelty.
“We’ll spare you if you leave,” the village elder decreed, his voice hard and unyielding.
With no choice, Melissa fled into the forest, clutching the few salvaged pieces of Orlov’s work. As she wandered through the snow-laden woods, her energy core pulsing erratically, a single word from Orlov’s teachings surfaced in her memory: grief.
For the first time, Melissa understood its weight.