Disbelief Papyrus Mga Nobela at Kwento

I brush the nostalgia off and keep looking. As I go to close one of the last books of the day a small folded piece of paper falls out one of the pages. I pick it up and unfold it. ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’ It’s in woman’s handwriting. Interesting. Who wrote this and why is it with the kings things? There hasn’t been a Queen around since she was sentenced to death about 25 years ago. The paper looks about the same age but how did it get in the book? I pick the book up and look it over. No title, just a simple brown book.

The penmanship on the papyrus is fading, making it hard to decipher what had been written on it. But as my eyes scan across the neatly handwritten notes, my understanding begins to blossom and I tremble inside. I tremble not from the cold, but I tremble from the revelation. All at once, memories of the black mist strangling mother…no...Helen comes back to haunt me. Quickly, I slam the papers back down on the ground, not caring if it damages the papyrus. “Blasphemy,” I say. It has to be.

Mom scolded me, and I just chuckled. Some of our kind strongly believed in and were afraid of the prophecies, such as my good friend, Alpha Augustin. I wasn’t one of them. And the real reason was that they weren’t complete. There were missing words or even phrases, and everybody could decrypt them, to their own accord. Artifacts of papyri safely secured in the University’s museum, well replicas, because the real ones were in its safe; hidden from common view. But to me, there were just parts of the tales and stories our parents used to read us to sleep.

Every one of her senses was enthralled with a soothing calm. “Damn it!” Damon’s voice from beyond the great hall. Pushing the door open, Journee saw him buried in mountainous piles of books and scrolls. She watched him hold up a piece of parchment, comparing it to another material. It is foreign. Something I have not handled in real life. Taking a closer look, she recognised it from her history textbooks. Papyrus! OMG! They have ancient Egyptian texts here?! Excitement shot through her veins as her hands trembled with desire. Briefly, Journee allowed her fingers to trace the outline of the hieroglyphics.

Then Tiberius broke the seal. Read it. Paused. Unlike the first scroll, he didn't pass it to the scriba. Instead he tightened his fingers around the parchment until it crumpled. Then, without a word, he walked to the nearest brazier and shoved the scroll into the flames. The parchment hissed, blackened, and curled like a dying spider The smell—burning papyrus, wine and sweat—filled the heavy air. Whatever it said, Tiberius would be the only one to know.

"WHY NOW??! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK WE WILL BELIEVE YOU??!" Motus snarled at Amadaus. His fur was bristled with anger. His gaze not leaving off of Amaduas. Amadaus slowly took out the crumpled paper and tossed it to Motus. Atzi walked up and sniffed it. She recognized it as the paper she ripped from thegiant tome. "Motus,....that's..the paper i had. I got it from one of Damon's spellbooks. He..he's telling the truth." Atzi said taking the paper.

Paper did not look back at you. He was not afraid of Cael's testimony either, not entirely. A witness could be discredited. A man who had spent thirty years in isolation could be painted as unreliable, traumatized, his memory questioned in front of a council that wanted to believe the comfortable version of events rather than the true one. He was afraid of me.

"She has been lying to all of us for years." Raphael turned his head and stared at me in disbelief. I did not say a word; I simply reached out and handed the thick brown folder directly to his hands. He took it, pulled out the documents, and began scanning the pages. Within seconds, his facial expression shifted rapidly from total confusion to deep shock, and finally to pure horror. "This cannot be real," Raphael gasped out, his hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. "This has to be some kind of sick joke."

I set the ledger on the altar stone and open it. The pages are filled with careful bureaucratic handwriting, columns of figures, dates, locations. I turn past the first section, shipping manifests and customs declarations, and then past a second section of property transfers I recognize from my translation work. The handwriting changes halfway through, becomes tighter, more compressed, as if the person writing understood that what they were recording could not be undone. I turn another page and my hands go still.

Dream was staring at the wooden toy. "There is something inside it." Evelyn looked down. A tiny seam ran across the bottom. She twisted the carving. The toy opened. Inside was a folded piece of silver paper. Evelyn unfolded it. Only three words were written there. DON'T TRUST HIM. She looked at Lucian. "Who wrote this?" Lucian's face changed. "I did." "When?" "Before I was imprisoned." "Why?" "I knew someone would eventually find it." "Who shouldn't I trust?"