It was during my third year of study in the House of Tablets that I heard whispered talk of a living vestige among the court elders—an aged Hebrew, once a counselor to kings, who had served in the courts of both Babylon and Persia. Some called him Belteshazzar, but the exiles named him Daniel. He had outlived four kings and countless intrigues; slightly bent with age, his presence carried the stillness of iron. Tales about him circulated like wind-borne embers—unverified but too persistent to dismiss. They said he spoke with angels. That he silenced sorcerers. That he survived the lions.
In truth, I cared little for wonders. But the man himself intrigued me. How had he endured, loyal neither to Marduk nor to the whims of tyrants? What sustained him in the face of empire and exile? What could such a man say now, as his breath slowed and his hands trembled? I was not seeking miracles. I sought meaning.