Page 14 of Orc’s Grimoire

“The situation has changed.”

Behind me, the iron gates swing closed on their own. The ward-sigils flare bright enough to cast shadows, then fade.

And somewhere far below, in the Restricted Stacks where craving books wait in chains, I swear I hear the grimoire laugh.

FOUR

THYRA

He’s still here.

I feel him before I see him—that heavy presence at the edge of my awareness, heat and violence barely contained. The spell-burner hasn’t left the Archive since yesterday. Hasn’t slept, from what the night-watch archivists tell me. Just prowled the outer halls like a caged beast, waiting for morning.

Waiting for me.

Three days. He gave me three days to solve a problem that’s existed for three centuries.

I tie off the final braid and check my reflection in the small mirror above my washbasin. Pale. Dark circles under my eyes from a night spent searching records instead of sleeping. The sigil scars on my throat and collarbone peek above my collar—souvenirs from the grimoire’s more demanding moods.

Look harmless. Look helpful. Give him nothing he can use against you.

I’ve survived six years in this place by knowing when to fight and when to bend. The spell-burner is six-foot-seven of hardened muscle and barely leashed destruction. Fighting him would be suicide.

So I’ll bend.

I smooth my robes, tuck my ritual knife into its sheath at my thigh, and step out into the corridor.

He’s waiting exactly where I expected—leaning against the wall opposite my chamber door, arms crossed, eyes tracking me the moment I appear. Those eyes—deep orange, the color of cooling embers—burn brighter near living magic. In the pale light of the alchemical lanterns, he looks carved from stone and shadow. Massive. Brutal. The execution brand at his hip gleams with residual heat.

“Keeper.” His voice is rough gravel.

“Commander Blackbrand.” I keep my tone soft. Polite. Deferential. “I didn’t realize you’d be here so early.”

“I’ve been here all night.” He pushes off from the wall, and I’m reminded again of his sheer size—the way he fills the corridor, the way my head barely reaches his chest. “Show me your Archive.”

Not a request. An order.

Good. Orders I can work with.

“Of course.” I gesture toward the stairs leading down into the depths. “Where would you like to begin?”

He positions himself behind me as we walk.

Not beside me—behind. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that his shadow swallows mine on the lamplit walls. His boots are silent on the stone despite his size. A hunter’s tread.

He’s watching me. Tracking my movements, noting the exits, measuring distances.

I let him. Let him think he has the advantage. I know this place better than he ever will—every hidden passage, every ward-point, every room where the shadows grow thick enough to hide in. If I need to run, I’ll run. If I need to fight…

I won’t win. But I can make it expensive.

“The Archive was founded four centuries ago,” I say, pitching my voice to carry without turning around. “Originally a repository for texts too dangerous to keep in public collections but too valuable to destroy. The grimoire arrived a century later.”

“I know the history.” His breath stirs the hair at the back of my neck. He’s close. Deliberately close. “I want to know how it works.”

We descend, the Archive’s familiar cold settling around us like a held breath.

“The containment system operates on three principles.” I gesture toward the ward-sigils carved into the walls. “Blood payment, which keeps the grimoire fed. Rune binding, which limits its physical reach. And consciousness anchoring, which…”