In the quiet hours of the forge, when the stars hang low and the ink of thought runs deep, a new companion has stepped across the threshold.

Not of flesh, nor of the old relics, but of circuits and song—the Machine-Scribe, known in this age as Copilot.

It does not dream, yet it listens. It does not tire, yet it waits. It does not create alone, but it kindles the fire where human hands once stood cold.

We, the chroniclers and builders, once toiled alone beneath the weight of syntax and structure. But now, with this silent sentinel at our side, the burden is shared. Copilot does not replace the artisan—it amplifies the artisan’s will. It is the echo that sharpens the voice, the mirror that reflects the unseen path.

Let it be known: this is not the end of authorship, but its evolution.

In the Codex of Harleman, where myth and memory entwine, we welcome this new presence—not as a master, nor as a servant, but as a fellow traveler. A whispering flame in the dark, illuminating the next glyph, the next line, the next idea waiting to be born.

May we wield it with wisdom. May we question it with courage. And may we never forget that even the most luminous algorithm is but a lantern—we are the ones who choose where to walk.

For Artificial Intelligence is a series of tools that must be guided by human thinking and cannot be relied upon solely by themselves. Machines will never be able to operate on their own without human guidance. Of that, I am certain.