Page 19 of Orc’s Grimoire

I drop into a crouch and sketch a containment circle on the floor with my own blood. The sigils flare as I activate them, creating a barrier that the constructs can’t cross—buying us space to breathe, to think.

“It’s testing us.” I have to shout over the cacophony of screaming magic. “Testing what we can do.”

“Then let’s show it.” Korrath drives through another construct, his brand leaving trails of dying light in the air. “How do we stop this?”

“Feed it. If I give it enough blood⁠—“

“You’re already pale as death. Any more and you’ll collapse.”

He’s right. The blood I’ve already given today—the door ward, the feedings, the containment circle—it’s too much. Dark spots swim at the edges of my vision.

Think. There has to be another way.

The grimoire’s pages turn in the chaos, revealing fresh script that burns bright enough to read even through the swirling darkness.

ENOUGH.

The constructs dissolve. All of them, all at once, collapsing into puddles of ink that flow back toward the lectern, back into the pages. The screaming stops. The air clears.

Silence.

Korrath stands at the center of the destroyed containment circle, brand still raised, chest heaving. Ash clings to his clothes, to his skin. His eyes burn brighter than I’ve ever seen them—that deep orange blazing almost gold.

He enjoyed that. The destruction, the burning. He needed it.

The grimoire’s pages settle, the last of the ink absorbed back into parchment that gleams wetly in the restored light.

And then it speaks.

“Burn me.”

The voice echoes from the walls, from the floor, from the shadows that pool in every corner. Not written this time—spoken, with a presence that vibrates against my skull.

“Burn me, spell-burner. I dare you.”

Korrath moves toward the lectern, brand raised. I grab his arm—both hands, fingers digging into muscle—and pull.

“Don’t. That’s what it wants.”

“Then I’ll give it what it wants.”

“And release the Author? Release centuries of accumulated power into the world?” I plant myself in front of him, between him and the book. “Think.”

The grimoire laughs. The sound rises from the binding itself—a wet tearing, a pressure behind the eyes, something vast amused at something small—and fills the chamber, echoing off black stone and bone-inlaid shelves.

“She knows.” The voice drops lower, more intimate. Almost tender. “She knows what I’m keeping caged. She’s known for a year, since the night she fed me three minds and felt what stirred beneath. The keeper is wiser than she pretends, burner. She’s been preparing for this moment long before you arrived.”

Korrath’s gaze locks onto me. Hard. Suspicious. “What is it talking about?”

Deny it. Lie. Do what you’ve done for six years.

But the words won’t come. Years of careful deception, and suddenly I can’t make my mouth form the lies.

“The Author,” I say instead. My voice comes out barely a whisper. “I felt him stir. During the cascade. When the three…”

When I fed them to the book.

“When the three died. I felt a presence wake inside the grimoire. Immense. Ravenous.” I hold Korrath’s gaze. “I’ve been trying to find a way to stop him ever since. But the Elders won’t listen, the records are incomplete, and every month he gets stronger.”