Alone in his mother's famous study, Fendric finds a mouldy old book laying on the counter. It reeks of old paper and leather but curiosity compels him to read further. Is it fiction? Or a true story about a time long ago?
The room was dark and gloomy, with only the light from the moon illuminating the many shelves and books stacked in an organised mess. Holding a candle, Fendrael stared blankly in front of him, scanning the books without looking for any one in particular.
At first, he was excited in being left alone in his mother's study, the room that she often occupied, and he was looking forward to exploring it on his own. But the novelty soon wore off once he realised that the room was less exciting when his mother wasn't there to look over his shoulder. There was no secrets to be found either, only the same old trinkets that he had seen before.
As he looked around, he could hear the music through the walls and the commotion in the kitchen next door. His mind turned glum as he realised why he had been sent here to begin with. His father, always careful with which people to associate with, did not care for his antics and had locked him inside.
With a loud sigh, he blew out the candle and gave up on finding something to read. Bored and bitter, he leaned back and feel onto the the only chair in the room behind him, but he immediately regretted it as it cracked under his weight. Considering checking for damages, he furrowed his brow in defiance and remained on the seat, caring not for the scolding he would surely receive later.
Now, sitting comfortably, his mind drifted and he thought about how often his mother sat in this chair, being completely swallowed in what she was reading. He wondered what could possibly be so interesting to read that warranted her full attention for hours on end.
As he stared at the sealing, his drifted towards the table next to him and found a rugged old book, half open and inviting. Curious what she was been reading, he grabbed it from the nightstand and wrinkled his nose as a pungent smell entered his nostrils. The book was old, really old. And the leather cover seemed to barely hold the yellowed pages together. As he held it far from his face, as far as his arms could reach, he read the title on the cover: "The Exodus Journal".
There was no author on the cover, only the title. And the fact that his mother was reading it, made him curious and he placed the book on the nightstand, lit the candle again, and carefully flipped to the first page. The pages were dry, but they still held, and the smell that had made his nose wrinkle moments before, did no longer affect him as he leaned forward and read the first sentence: