The tiny creature darted through the shadows, its whiskers trembling as it scanned the crumbling ruins. Claws scraped stone—a flicker of movement, then silence. It knew every crack, every hidden passage in this labyrinth. Survival was instinct, but this mouse was no scavenger. Its fur shimmered faintly under moss-light, a relic of ancient magic fused to its bones. Whispers among the rats spoke of a pact: this mouse had bargained with the dungeon’s trapped spirit, trading its fragility for claws that could carve runes into steel and eyes that saw the world as threads of fate. Now it slipped between armies and thieves, unnoticed, weaving chaos or mercy with a nibble, a stolen scroll, a gnawed rope. The dungeon’s heart whispered secrets to it alone. Some called it a pest. Fools. It was the architect of tomorrow’s legends.
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