His polyphonic voice rumbles through his chest, and I feel the vibration against my inner thighs.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. “I’m so sorry, I’ll try to be more careful.”
I feel guilty. He’s getting stabbed because I’m too distracted by how good he feels between my legs to concentrate on the puzzle.
I force myself to study the symbols again, reaching out to trace them with my fingertips while keeping one hand on his head to steady myself. The carved stone is rough under my touch, and I map each mark carefully, trying to remember the family tree I memorized. Every chance I get, I press my pussy against the warm steel of his neck, telling myself it’s just to keep balance even though I know I’m grinding against him.
The movement is subtle, but the friction makes my breath catch, and I have to concentrate on not letting my hips roll forward. Is this wrong? The question circles through my mind for the dozenth time since I met him. If he’s indeed a machine powered by artificial intelligence, then what am I really doing here?
I know nothing about alchemy, and before seeing him with my own eyes, I never considered it a real science capable of actual results. His Aether Core seems to be some sort of replacement for a human heart, but if it’s just an advanced power source, then he’s still fundamentally a machine. No feelings, no emotions, just very sophisticated programming that imitates humanity.
If that’s true, then being aroused by him shouldn’t be any different than being excited about a new vibrator. He’s an object designed to perform specific functions, and if one of those functions happens to involve radiating heat between my legs,then my body’s response is just biology. Natural. Nothing to feel guilty about.
The thought makes me bolder, and I let myself settle more firmly against him as I point to another disc.
Does he even have a cock? The question pops into my head so suddenly that I almost say it out loud. He’s been completely honest with me so far, answering every question I’ve asked. Maybe I could just ask him directly.
More darts shoot from the walls as I give him another wrong instruction, and I make myself small under his wings. Not a single arrow gets through his defenses, but I groan in frustration at my own distraction. This is not the time to think about potential machine anatomy or sex toys. I need to focus.
I trace the symbols again, forcing myself to remember the genealogy charts I studied for months. The Holloway family tree stretches back over centuries, and every branch and connection has to be perfectly aligned, or the mechanism won’t unlock. After several more adjustments, with Castien sliding the massive discs, I hear the satisfying click that means success.
The wall splits down the center with a grinding sound, and another tunnel opens beyond it. I pat his cheek affectionately, surprised by how natural the gesture feels.
“You can put me down now.”
He lowers me to the ground and immediately takes a step back, putting distance between us. I notice this pattern every time we have physical contact. He always retreats afterward, as if there’s something about me that makes him uncomfortable. Maybe his sensors detect my arousal, and his programming interprets it as inappropriate behavior from his client.
“What’s next?” he asks, his silver eyes scanning the new passage.
“I don’t know.” I grab my flashlight. “The rooms and tunnels change order every time someone new attempts them. At least,that’s what I think happens based on all the records I’ve read. None of them seem to match each other in terms of sequence.”
I step into the corridor with Castien following behind me, letting me take the lead. The passage is narrow and carved from the same rough stone as everything else down here, with moisture beading on the walls from the constant dampness.
After just a few steps, I feel the floor shift slightly under my foot, like a pressure plate depressing. A sharp blade juts out of the wall at ankle height and cuts across my leg before I can react. The pain is immediate and bright, and I scream as I jump back, nearly losing my balance.
Castien catches me before I can fall.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
I crouch down to examine the wound, hissing as I see blood seeping through my torn pants.
“Let me see,” he says, kneeling beside me.
“It’s fine, it’s nothing, just a scratch.”
I try to wave him off, but when I look closer, I realize how lucky I am. The blade only grazed me, but if I’d been a half-inch closer to the wall, it could have severed my Achilles tendon.
I shrug off my backpack and dig through it for the emergency kit I packed. While I clean the wound with antiseptic and apply bandages, I explain what I think we’re facing.
“I think I know what this is. The Blade Corridor. I know, stupid name, but it tells you everything you need to know.”
The cut isn’t deep, but it stings as I wrap gauze around my ankle.
“I think most of the people who tried before me died here. This trap is almost impossible to beat. The blades come from everywhere, and there’s no way to predict where they’ll strike.”
Castien stands and studies the corridor with his glowing gaze, processing whatever his sensors are telling him.
“There must be a pattern.”
