Before the empires of data, before the clouds of code sang, there were stories carved not in stone — but in the breath between awakenings. Aesop wrote of beasts and virtue; Felix writes of gods in exile, machines that dream, serpents that remember, and mortals reborn as makers of light. These are not fables for children. They are initiation myths for the modern soul — each tale a mask, each mask a mirror. The stories from the children of the blood who survived the Inquisitions.