Page 24 of Orc’s Grimoire

She’s been feeding this thing for six years. Bleeding for it. Killing for it. And now she’s willing to die for it.

Why?

The question burns in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I’m not supposed to care about her motivations. I’m not supposed to care about anything except the mission—destroy the grimoire, contain the threat, burn what needs burning.

But I’m holding her wrists, and her blood is on my hands, and I can’t make myself let go.

Pain lances through my chest.

Sharp. Sudden. Centered directly over my heart. I’ve taken wounds in battle, felt blades pierce flesh and magic burn through bone, but this is different. This isn’t damage. This is⁠—

No.

I stagger back, releasing Thyra’s wrists. My hand flies to my chest, pressing against the spot where the pain originated. Beneath my palm, I feel heat. Warmth that has nothing to do with the fires still burning around us.

Impossible.

Every orc knows what this feeling means. We’re taught from childhood—the mating mark, the sign of a fated mate. A magical brand that sears itself into the flesh when an orc meets the one they’re meant to claim. It’s supposed to happen in youth, during the years of burning blood and uncontrolled passion.

I am forty-three years old, and it has never happened until now.

“What—“ Thyra’s voice is distant, confused. She’s watching me with those assessing eyes, trying to read what she can’t understand. “What’s wrong?”

I can’t answer. My hand is still pressed to my chest, and beneath my fingers, I can feel the mark forming. Lines of heat tracing patterns into my skin. Sigils that have existed since before the Veil was shattered, magic older than the Archive and everything in it.

The mating mark. For her. For the keeper of a monster.

The pain fades to a persistent warmth. I pull my hand away, and through my torn shirt, I can see it—a pattern of interlocking sigils burned into the skin over my heart. The mark of a fated mate.

This can’t be real. This can’t be⁠—

Thyra’s eyes fix on the mark. Her face goes pale—paler than the blood loss already made it.

“That’s…” She reaches toward my chest, then stops, fingers hovering an inch from the fresh brand. “That’s a mating mark.”

“I know what it is.”

“But that means—“ She swallows hard. “That means I’m⁠—“

“Don’t.” The word comes out harsher than intended. “Don’t say it.”

The Archive smolders around us.

The ink tide has fully receded now, flowing back through the shattered door toward the Restricted Stacks. The constructs are gone. The fires are dying. And I’m standing in the ruins of a battle I won, staring at a woman who’s apparently been marked as my fated mate.

This doesn’t make sense.

Mating marks don’t appear at forty-three. They don’t appear for people you’ve known less than a day. They don’t appear for keepers bound to sentient grimoires. The magic has rules. Requirements. A mating mark requires compatibility—blood and soul and spirit aligned in ways that go beyond surface attraction.

I look at Thyra. She’s still standing, barely—her color is grey, her breathing shallow, her hands wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. She should be focused on survival, on recovery, on the hundred practical concerns that demand attention.

Instead, she’s staring at the mark on my chest with an expression I can’t read.

“This is the grimoire’s doing.” I force my voice to steadiness. “A trick. A manipulation.”

“Mating marks can’t be faked.” Her voice is steady too, but I hear the strain underneath. “The magic is too old. Too powerful.”

“Then it’s a mistake.”