Page 17 of Orc’s Grimoire

“It communicates this way,” I explain, keeping my voice steady as the grimoire drinks my blood. “Written messages, mostly. It only found its voice recently.”

I HAVE BEEN QUIET FOR SO LONG.

The script rearranges itself, letters crawling into new formations.

BUT YOU WOKE ME, BURNER. YOUR FIRE CALLED TO ME ACROSS THE WARDS. SO BRIGHT. SO WANTING.

“What does it want?” Korrath’s voice is controlled, but I hear the tension underneath.

WANT? I WANT WHAT ALL PRESERVED THINGS WANT. TO BE REMEMBERED. TO BE USED. TO MATTER.

More script appears, faster now, the red-black ink gleaming wetly.

THE KEEPER UNDERSTANDS. SHE FEEDS ME NOT BECAUSE SHE MUST, BUT BECAUSE SHE KNOWS WHAT I CONTAIN. SHE KNOWS THE VALUE OF WHAT WOULD BE LOST IF I BURNED.

I feel Korrath’s attention fix on me. Weighing. Assessing.

“What do you contain?” he asks the book. “What’s worth dying for?”

The pages turn slowly. Deliberately.

EVERYTHING. I CONTAIN EVERYTHING. EVERY FORBIDDEN SPELL. EVERY LOST LANGUAGE. EVERY SECRET BURIED BECAUSE IT WAS TOO DANGEROUS TO SHARE.

A pause. Then:

INCLUDING YOURS, SPELL-BURNER. INCLUDING HERS.

The air in the Restricted Stacks drops ten degrees.

I step back from the lectern, pulling my bleeding hand away. The grimoire makes a sound of frustrated appetite, but it doesn’t pursue. It’s more interested in the game it’s playing.

THE THREE WHO WALKED INTO MY PAGES, KEEPER. DOES HE KNOW?

Ice floods my chest.

It knows. Of course it knows. It was there. It consumed them.

Korrath turns to face me. Those ember-bright eyes bore into mine, searching, assessing. “What’s it talking about?”

“Nothing.” The lie comes easily. Smooth. Reasonable. “The grimoire says many things. Most of them designed to cause chaos.”

“Thyra.” My name in his mouth again. That low rumble, too intimate for the space between us. “What did you do?”

I made a choice.

But I don’t say that. I keep my expression calm, my voice steady, my lies perfectly polished.

“There was a containment failure. Three archivists died. The grimoire was involved, but not in the way it’s implying.” I hold his stare without flinching. “It’s trying to divide us. Don’t let it.”

He watches me for a long moment. I can see him weighing my words, measuring my tells, deciding whether to press further.

He doesn’t believe me. He knows I’m lying.

But he lets it go. For now.

“The Author,” he says instead. “You mentioned him yesterday. Tell me everything.”

I move away from the lectern, putting distance between myself and the grimoire’s ravenous attention. Korrath follows, his presence a constant force at my back.