She took out a book from the bookshelf. It was the oldest of them all, the writing still clear after all these years. It was the first journal, begun by her very first ancestor, two hundred and fifty generations ago. The papyrus had crinkled, but somehow, the magic preserved the writings and the pages itself. It would all come apart though, if no one touched the books for five generations. The papyrus was bound like a book, a testament that its author or the person who had commissioned it was once a rich woman.

She sat down in the leather arm chair, tossing her legs carelessly over the arm, so that her bare, smooth legs were exposed to the warm sunlight. She opened the book slowly, to read its writings. Only the ancient Egyptologists would have understood the book besides she, but they would only understand parts of it and not the whole.

Gently, she turned the first page, which had given her her ancestor’s name, her rank (she was the first Matriarch) and the dates covered in the journal. Then she turned to read it.

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