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<b>I did not choose the rat. The rat chose me. It crept from the shadows on the fourth night of my arrival, whiskers twitching, eyes glimmering like droplets of black glass. Most would have driven it off, but I saw more than vermin - I saw a survivor. In every age I've crossed, those who endure are not the strongest, nor the purest, but the clever. The rat is that truth made flesh. Its kind survives where others perish. It listens when others speak too loudly. It moves through the filth of the world yet remains uncorrupted by it. That, I admire. In my work as a mage, deciphering the tangled paths of time - shrewdness is as vital as faith. I may swear oaths to truth and order, but I've learned that survival often wears the face of cunning. The rat reminds me of the parts of myself I dare not speak of. I walk in the light of prophecy, yet much of my journey happens in shadow. The rat understands this balance instinctively. It knows when to move, when to hide, and when to strike. To some, it is a pest. To me, it is a teacher. It reminds me that the divine does not always roar from mountaintops - sometimes, it whispers through the smallest heartbeat beneath the floorboards. And perhaps that is why it stays near me still. The world I seek to save has forgotten the wisdom of small things. The rat remembers. | |