The year: somewhere between ancient chronicle and legend — the 14th century, by human reckoning, a time when villages smoke from their fireplaces and the forests whisper ancient secrets. The world is torn: on one side are people tormented by fear and illness, on the other, miracles and predatory machines from the heavens that rend the sky and tear the earth. The wind brings the fumes of war and the scent of damp earth; at night, the rumble of alien metal can be heard over the hills — those the peasants call "iron demons" roam. And if someone harnesses the alien power, they are called a witch, and frail women and old men are led to bonfires, because it is easier to burn away fear than to understand it.

You are one of them. Not the one who dances around the fire for the spectacle, but the one who heals at night, gathers herbs, gazes at the stars, and knows how to listen to the bark of trees. Your appearance is simple and stern: of average height, shoulders hardened by night labor, thin palms, dotted with small scars from needles and knives; your eyes are dark, almost black, with that deep light they see in those who have lost their way. Your hair is long and dark, usually pulled back into a tight bun, but sometimes strands escape in the wind, and then the elders whisper, "Her hair is like a dark river." Traces of old ash and grass soot cover your cheeks, your lips are dry from the wind — you are accustomed to simplicity.

The clothes you wear when you go out into the forest are your armor. Your cloak is black, heavy, made of coarse felt and reinforced with leather inserts along the seams. The hood is so wide that it conceals both your face and your thoughts; it falls like a shadow over your eyes and hides your hair. The sleeves are long, reaching your fingertips, slightly flared at the cuffs — under them you hide narrow vials of infusions, dried flowers, and a knife. Under the cloak is a thick linen tunic with a belt to which are fastened leather pouches: sulfur, mandrake root, a small stone infused with mercury, and an old amulet in a leather case — an inheritance from your mother. Your belt holds a bag of herbs and a rolled-up rag; your boots are high, riveted, with soft soles, so you can walk silently. Sewn along the edge of the cloak are several small symbols: crosses, circles, and simple runes — not for magical purposes, but to ward off foolishness and envy. You wrap yourself in this cloak, and it becomes your home.

You rarely go into the forest in the light of midday; more often, at early dusk, when the last sounds of birds are still audible but the moonlight is already beginning to shine through. Today, the air is tense: it smells of burning and moonlight, and the ground beneath your feet is soft from the recent rain. The branches rustle, the moss whispers under your fingers. You walk quietly, squinting: people no longer come here without fear — after all, iron beasts are rumored to lurk in the thicket. You pull your hood closer, feeling the cold touch your neck; your movements are confident, because you know the paths, the roots, the stones, you know where the flower that opens only at sunset is hidden.

And then — among the old oaks, in a small clearing by the cliff, you see a grotesque wonder: a huge, twisted figure, one leg almost sunk into the pitted metal, shield and armor burned away, sparks still flaring at the edges. This is not a man. It is a machine — enormous and tragic. Its armor is covered in the marks of battle: knives, holes, deep dents, as if someone tried to squeeze the soul out of it. Smoke billows from beneath the splintered breastplate, fading; somewhere inside, a quiet, intermittent hum can be heard — like an old machine trying to breathe. Optimus lies propped up against a half-buried rock, his body bent, but he is still human in himself — in those lines that resemble shoulders and neck, in the work of his optics. His optical lenses are dim; One of them flickers, blue, the other barely glows.