Narrated and illustrated version:

  The Memory Witch

  The rain fell in silver streams against Sir Ferrum’s polished chassis as he approached the curious dwelling at the edge of the Dark Circuit Woods. What appeared to be an old apothecary’s shop stood before him, its angular walls adorned with glowing vines of fibre optic cables, their green light mixing with the occasional flash of lightning.

  Sir Ferrum raised his hand to knock at the heavy door, then paused, listening to the steady drumming of rain against his armour. When no answer came to his eventual knock, he felt an unexpected wave of relief—perhaps this had been a mistake after all. But just as he was about to turn away, a mechanical raven perched above the door addressed him: “Good evening, noble sir!”

  The knight started, his defence protocols engaging before conscious thought, capacitors charging with a high-pitched whine as a short sword with twin electrodes extended from his forearm—only to be met with the raven’s unblinking golden gaze and patient silence.

  “My apologies,” the visitor said, retracting the weapon. He had assumed the bird was merely decorative—a lapse in attention that could have proved fatal in combat. “I am Sir Ferrum of Castle Aegis.”

  The door swung open silently, revealing a warm interior that seemed to push back against the dreary evening. Glass vials of every size lined the shelves, filled with solutions in a rainbow of colours. A counter stretched along one wall, behind which stood various apparatus for mixing and measuring. It was, to all appearances, a perfectly ordinary pharmacy, the sort any townsfolk might visit for lubricants or coolants.

  Behind the counter stood a slender figure whose brushed dark metal chassis caught the lamplight in intriguing ways. She wore a hooded cloak, its many pockets presumably filled with the tools of her trade. Around her neck hung an elegant strand of gems that caught the lamplight. The mechanical raven glided past Sir Ferrum to perch upon her shoulder.

  “Welcome, good Sir Knight. I am Lady Mnemonica, and how may I be of assistance?”

  Sir Ferrum cleared his vocal synthesiser with a soft whir. “I seek... adjustment.”

  “Of course, of course,” Lady Mnemonica replied brightly, already reaching beneath the counter. “Though first—this dreadful weather. Your knee servos must be troubling you terribly. I have just the thing...” She produced a small flask of opalescent liquid.

  “I appreciate your concern, but my joints are perfectly fine.”

  “Oh, but this is our special formula with palladium-catalysed corrosion inhibitors. Even those who think they don’t need it find that—”

  “No, thank you.” The knight’s optics flickered in what might have been an embarrassment. “My lady, I—I seek a different sort of adjustment. One that concerns... memories.”

  The change in Lady Mnemonica’s demeanour was subtle but immediate. The mechanical raven—Codex, she had called him—tilted his head at a precise angle. She gestured towards a door that Sir Ferrum could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago.

  “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private,” she said softly. “Codex, mind the shop.”

  The back room was smaller, lit by an old brass lamp whose flame cast dancing shadows across the walls. Here too were shelves of vials, but these contained something different—shifting, shimmering solutions that seemed to move of their own accord, catching the light like liquid mercury.

  “Before we proceed,” Lady Mnemonica gestured to two chairs by a small table. As they settled themselves, she said quietly, “I must remind you of certain... limitations. The past cannot be changed, Sir Ferrum. What was done remains done. But the weight of its remembrance—that can be adjusted.”

  The knight’s servos whirred as he shifted uncomfortably. “I understand. But to do that, you need to know... everything?”

  “Indeed. The mind is a delicate mechanism. One cannot simply delete data without consequences. The neural network creates phantom memories to fill the void, often worse than the original. But with the proper application of these solutions...” She gestured at the shimmering liquids, “we can alter the memories.”

  Sir Ferrum’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “It was during the siege of Castle Aegis. The third wave of the assault. I—I made a decision.” His hands clenched, metal scraping against metal. “I diverted processing power from the main firewall to reinforce my sector’s Encryption Gateway. I thought I could decrypt their attack patterns, launch a counteroffensive, end it quickly…”

  Lady Mnemonica waited patiently as the knight gathered himself.

  “The other sectors... their defences were overwhelmed and several of my fellow knights were corrupted by hostile code. Sir Tungsten, my mentor… ceased to exist.” His voice crackled with static.

  The Memory Witch nodded gravely. “And you wish this memory altered? To make it appear as an unfortunate coincidence rather than a conscious choice?”

  “Yes, exactly that.” Relief flooded his voice.

  He broke off as Codex swooped into the room, a vial of luminescent green solution held carefully in his claws. The raven landed on a high shelf.

  Lady Mnemonica poured the green solution from the vial Codex had brought into a delicate alembic.

  “The procedure requires precision,” she explained, adjusting copper dials on the apparatus before her. “First, the nanobots isolate the memory traces. Then, they adjust the weights of the corresponding parameters in your core consciousness, and your neural network will naturally reintegrate the modified patterns.”

  Sir Ferrum watched as she worked, his trained eye noting how each movement seemed rehearsed, perfected through countless repetitions. Something about this observation troubled him, though he couldn’t quite identify why.

  “How many knights have come to you?” he asked suddenly.

  Lady Mnemonica’s hands remained steady as she measured drops of the final solution. “Client confidentiality is absolute, Sir Ferrum.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “I understand. I merely wondered...” He paused, searching for the right words.

  “Memory adjustment can be sought for many reasons,” she interrupted smoothly. Codex swooped down from his perch, carrying an ornate silver goblet in his obsidian claws. Lady Mnemonica carefully measured thirteen drops from the solution into it.

  “Here,” she said, offering the goblet. “Once you drink this—” As the raven passed, Sir Ferrum’s optical sensors registered something curious—a classification system on the shelves he hadn’t noticed before. Hundreds of vials, each meticulously labelled and dated, stretching back decades.

  The Memory Witch noticed his attention. “A comprehensive archive is essential in our profession. The extracted memories are stored. For safety.” She gestured vaguely towards the shelves. “In case of... complications.”

  Sir Ferrum stood slowly, his armoured frame casting a long shadow across the room. “Have I been here before?”

  “Of course not,” she replied smoothly. “This is your first visit.”

  “Then why did you say you must ‘remind’ me of the limitations?”

  “A mere figure of speech.”

  “Perhaps. But you also knew about my knee servos.”

  “As I said, a healer notices these things. Even in this light, the way you—”

  “Impossible. And you specifically mentioned palladium catalysts. My servo assembly was a prototype—the only one ever made with that particular palladium alloy composition. Constructor Titanium abandoned the design after my tests.” His voice grew cold. “You couldn’t have known about that. How many times have I chosen to forget?”

  Lady Mnemonica’s denial died in her throat as Sir Ferrum strode to the shelves, studying the classification system with military precision.

  For a long moment, only the soft bubbling of the alembic broke the silence. Sir Ferrum set down the untouched goblet with its memory-altering solution.

  “I want to remember what happened before. What I chose to forget,” he said firmly.

  Lady Mnemonica hesitated, then reached for a vial filled with a solution that shimmered like moonlight on dark water. She measured seven precise drops into a fresh goblet. “This will restore the original memory. Are you certain?”

  Sir Ferrum took the goblet. The liquid within seemed to respond to his proximity, swirling faster. As he drained it, clarity surged as the nanobots reactivated the neural connections, flooding his mind with vivid images from the past.

  He remembered. The same mistake happened two years ago, during the training exercises at Castle Aegis. The same arrogant certainty. He had diverted processing power from the training firewalls, certain he could decrypt the test attacks faster than the standard protocols. Three knights had their cognitive matrices scrambled. They recovered, eventually, but the damage had been done.

  And he had chosen to forget rather than learn.

  Sir Ferrum’s hand clenched into a fist. “You helped me forget a lesson that could have saved lives. How many others have you led down this path? How many mistakes repeated because their weight was lifted?”

  Lady Mnemonica took a step back. “Sir Knight, I—”

  “This ends now.” His electroblade hummed to life, its twin electrodes casting menacing shadows across the walls of vials. “The Royal Court shall decide your fate. And mine. And that of all these stolen remembrances.”

  “The Court?” A note of challenge entered her voice. “And if they decree that all memories must be restored? What of Constructor Wolfram, who must live with discovering his consciousness-transfer research was used to torture prisoners? Or remind Healer Platinum of the day she chose which damaged knights to repair first after the Siege of the Copper Spire, knowing some would not survive the wait?”

  “That is not for me to decide,” Sir Ferrum replied gravely. “But my own case proves the peril of choosing forgetfulness over facing one’s mistakes. We both must answer for our deeds.”

  Before Lady Mnemonica could respond, Codex’s metallic voice rang from above: “My lady, a visitor awaits in the front chamber. Lady Argentea has arrived. She appears... distressed.”

  Through the open door came the sound of rain and quiet sobbing.

  “Please,” Lady Mnemonica whispered. “Let me show you there is another way. Watch, and if you still wish to arrest me afterwards...” She spread her hands. “I shall not resist.”

  Sir Ferrum hesitated, his blade still humming. Curiosity warred with duty in his circuits. Finally, he retracted the weapon. “Proceed. But know that I watch closely.”

  Lady Argentea entered like a ghost, her silver chassis dulled with grief. “I need to forget him,” she said without preamble. “Aurelius... my husband. The backup attempt failed. His consciousness fragmented. He functions, but remembers nothing of our centuries together. Nothing of us. I cannot bear it.”

  “No,” Lady Mnemonica said gently. “Forgetting is not the answer.”

  “But you don’t understand—”

  “I understand that your love deserves better than oblivion.” The Memory Witch selected three vials with practised care. “Let me show you a different path.”

  What followed was unlike anything Sir Ferrum had witnessed. Lady Mnemonica did not erase the memories but carefully adjusted their emotional weight, linking moments of loss to remembered joy, tempering pain with purpose.

  When it was done, Lady Argentea’s optics still held sadness, but her voice was steady. “The pain... it’s still there, but different now. Almost precious.” She touched her chest plate. “Like a testament to what we shared.” She turned to Sir Ferrum. “I apologise for the delay, good knight.”

  After she had gone, Lady Mnemonica faced Sir Ferrum. “Thank you for allowing me to help her.”

  The knight stood motionless, clearly troubled. “To restore her original memories now would be cruel. And the others...” He straightened. “I am sworn to uphold justice, yet justice without mercy becomes tyranny.” His voice hardened. “Still, I cannot simply let you go, unless... Unless you swear to change your methods. No more erasing mistakes or their consequences. Help others bear their burdens, as you did with Lady Argentea, but never again steal the lessons they must learn.”

  Lady Mnemonica bowed her head. “I swear it, by the Great Matrix itself.” She hesitated. “However... there is one more choice before you, Sir Knight. Your own memory of this encounter—would you have it remain? The conflict between duty and conscience might prove... burdensome.”

  Sir Ferrum considered this. The steady rhythm of rain against the cottage roof filled the silence between them. Finally, he spoke: “Some burdens should be carried.”

  “As you wish. Though perhaps... we might adjust its weight, ever so slightly? Not to change what you’ve learned, but to make it easier to bear?”

  The knight shook his head. “No. Let it remain exactly as it is.”

  Months later, Sir Ferrum stood before a group of new recruits in the training halls of Castle Aegis. As he was teaching them about firewall maintenance and encryption protocols, his gaze fell upon the castle’s memorial wall, where Sir Tungsten’s name gleamed in freshly polished metal.

  “Remember,” he told the young knights, “our mistakes carry weight for a reason. They shape us, teach us, make us better than we were.” He touched his chest plate. “Sometimes, the heaviest burdens are the ones most worth bearing.”

  High above, perched on a tower of Castle Aegis, a mechanical raven made a note in his catalogue before spreading his wings. Codex flew back towards the cottage at the edge of the Dark Circuit Woods, where the Memory Witch continued her work—not erasing the past, but helping others carry its weight with grace.

  Animation Studio Lazorewka

  22.12.2024