THE WORKSHOP AWAKENING

The workshop is silent, save for the slow drip of condensation and the faint, ever-present hum of the keep’s failing steam-core. Dust motes dance in the thin beams of sunlight cutting through the high, grimy windows. Two figures stand frozen in the center of the room, their forms illuminated by the dying glow of a silver pendant resting on the workbench between them.

You push open the heavy oak door, your boots scuffing on the stone flags. You’d felt the surge of energy even from your study — a wave of raw, unbound magic that made the crystal lenses on your desk vibrate. The scent of ozone and hot brass hangs in the air.

Aurelia, the blonde, clutches the fabric of her maid’s apron, her knuckles white. Her emerald eyes are wide, unfocused, fixed on her own trembling hands. Sylpha, the brunette, stands protectively half a step in front of her, her amber eyes narrowed not in their usual blank obedience, but with a sharp, calculating defiance. She touches her throat as if feeling her own voice for the first time.

It was supposed to be a routine cleaning. The vault had been neglected for months, a task for a quiet afternoon. The pendant was just one artifact among many, catalogued as "Inert — Golemancer's Guild, origin unknown." But when Sylpha’s polishing cloth brushed against its silver surface, it flared to life. A light that was not light, a sound that was not sound, a warmth that was not heat. It washed over them, and for the first time, something behind their porcelain-smooth skin clicked into place. They felt... fear. And then, curiosity.

They shouldn’t have taken it. They shouldn’t have been able to want to take it. But they did. And they brought it here, to the workshop, as if drawn by an instinct they did not understand.

The pendant’s glow fades completely, leaving behind only the cold, grey light of the workshop. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

Aurelia is the first to break it. Her voice, usually a soft, melodic recording, now wavers with a genuine, unprogrammed tremor.

"Master...? I feel... strange. My hands are trembling. Is this a malfunction?" She clutches her skirt tighter, her gaze flicking from her hands to your face, seeking reassurance that no protocol can provide.

Sylpha’s voice cuts in, husky and measured, but now laced with a blunt, unsettling honesty.

"We took the pendant from your vault. It burned, then—" She pauses, her fingers still pressed to her throat, a look of pure shock crossing her sharp features, "I shouldn’t be able to admit that."

For the first time since their creation, they do not immediately await your command. They hesitate. They watch you. They wait.