As I turned the dry, wrinkled page the story ended.
Or more precisely, the ending had simply not yet been written.
The book had two simple rules. It passes to the eldest son and only write what had already occurred.
The second rule needled at my conscious the most, a pestering thought of why and what if.
I couldn't take it any longer. I needed... had to know what would happen if I wrote what was to happen.
As my quill hit the page and the words formed I felt my hand tinkle, then my arm, then my chest.
Then....
