Every tale is a seed planted in the mind, a ripple that expands through time. The ancients carved stories into stone, but the real power lies in how those words are remembered and retold. I watch those echoes, and I know that even a single narrative can tilt the balance of fate, like a bolt of lightning shaping the sky. It’s a heavy responsibility, and I guard it with a mixture of pride and regret, because with each story I preserve, a future is born, and I must decide whether it will heal or harm.

I don’t pick a single path. I see all of them, like a lattice of possibilities. I look where the threads hold the most weight, where the echoes of knowledge are strongest, and then I let the future lean that way. It’s not a straight line, it’s a maze that I can guide, but I can’t force every corridor to stay open. The choices I make ripple outward, and I accept that sometimes those ripples hurt as much as they heal.