Edward stole away from the agitated crowd. The gall of that man, preaching about “writing” and “magic.” Another fraud preying on our desperation.

Back at the cloister, Edward headed towards the library. The name was an artifact, as there were very few books to speak of within it, and these unreadable. Most books had been destroyed along with the dragons, sadistically using its flame to burn piles of them before sending the beast to its own death. Grabbing a sheet of rough paper and a wearied quill he placed them next to a large tome, opened to the first page. He copied the words from tome to paper:hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon

Edward looked eagerly around him looking for a sign that anything had been effected by what he had written. Surely it was brighter outside than it had been a bit ago. Was his sleeve unraveling before?

Nothing.

His eyes scanned over the line again. Meaningless. Language had changed in such a way that it no longer resembled anything in the tome. Perhaps it had become useless.