Page 23 of Orc’s Grimoire

An ink-wolf launches itself at my chest. I catch it on my blade, let momentum carry it past, and keep moving. A bird rakes talons across my shoulder, drawing blood. I don’t stop.

Thyra has her knife out. She’s cutting her palms again, deeper than before, letting blood flow in rivers down her arms. The ink-constructs near her are hesitating, circling but not attacking—drawn to the blood, confused by its offering.

She’s trying to distract them. Using herself as bait.

I reach her in three more strides, grabbing her wrist and pulling her behind me. Her blood smears against my skin, hot and slick, and the contact sends a jolt through my chest that has nothing to do with the fight.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Saving you.” She yanks her wrist free, holds up her dripping palms. “The grimoire wants blood more than it wants destruction. If I give it what it wants⁠—“

“You’ll bleed out.”

“I’ll buy us time.”

Before I can stop her, she pushes past me and walks toward the ink tide.

The constructs part for her.

I watch—frozen, furious, unable to act—as Thyra walks through a sea of nightmares like a queen through her court. The wolves lower their heads. The birds settle on shoulders and outstretched arms. The things without names curve around her, hungry but patient.

She reaches the edge of the ink tide and kneels.

Blood falls from her palms in steady streams, dropping into the black liquid, disappearing beneath the surface. The tide shudders. Ripples spread outward. And slowly, gradually, it begins to recede.

“Stop fighting.” Her voice carries across the chamber, strained but clear. “Every time you kill one of them, you make the grimoire stronger. It’s drinking your destruction.”

“I noticed.” I keep my blade raised, my brand ready. The constructs aren’t attacking, but they haven’t dissolved either. “What are you doing?”

“Paying the debt.” More blood drips from her hands. Her face is pale—too pale. Her breathing is shallow, labored. “The grimoire is starving. It’s been starving since you arrived. Your presence woke appetites it can’t control.”

“So you’re just going to feed it until it’s satisfied?”

“Until it’s calm.” She sways slightly, catches herself. “There’s a difference.”

The ink tide continues to recede. The constructs are dissolving now, flowing back into the main mass, their forms losing coherence. The wolves fade to shadows. The birds become smears of darkness. The nameless things simply… stop.

And still Thyra bleeds.

She’s going to kill herself. She’s going to bleed out right here, and you’re going to stand there and watch.

I move before the thought finishes forming.

“Enough.”

I cross the distance between us in two strides, grab her wrists, and haul her upright. Her blood smears across my hands, my forearms, the front of my shirt. She’s lighter than I expected—too light, too fragile for someone who’s survived this place for six years.

“Let go.” She tries to pull free, but there’s no strength behind it. “I need to finish⁠—“

“You need to not die.” I tear strips from my own shirt, binding her palms with rough efficiency. The fabric darkens immediately, blood soaking through. “The grimoire can find another meal.”

“You don’t understand.” Her eyes find mine, and despite everything—despite the blood loss and the exhaustion and the chaos still smoking around us—there’s fire in them. Defiance. “If I stop now, it’ll start again. It’ll keep attacking until it gets what it wants.”

“Then we’ll find another way to give it what it wants.”

“There is no other way.”

We’re standing close—too close. Her blood is on my hands, her body swaying against mine as her strength fails. I can smell the copper of her wounds, the ink that clings to her skin, and underneath it all, the scent of her. Warm. Female. Alive.