Page 25 of Orc’s Grimoire

“Mating marks aren’t mistakes either.”

We stare at each other across the smoking ruins. Two people who should be enemies. Two people who are apparently, impossibly, bound.

She’s not wrong. You know she’s not wrong.

The mating mark pulses against my chest, warm and insistent. I can feel it now—an awareness that wasn’t there before. A gravity drawing me toward the woman in front of me, beyond physical attraction, beyond tactical assessment, beyond any of the rational categories I use to understand the world.

She’s yours. The mark says she’s yours.

I shove the thought down with every ounce of discipline I possess.

“We need to deal with the grimoire.” My voice is rough. “Whatever this is, it can wait.”

“Can it?” Thyra’s eyes haven’t left the mark. “If that’s a true mating mark, ignoring it will cause problems. Physical problems. The magic demands completion.”

“Then the magic will have to be patient.”

I turn away from her, facing the destruction we’ve wrought. Books still smolder on broken shelves. Ink stains spread across the floor like shadows. The Restricted Stacks lie beyond the shattered door, and somewhere in there, the grimoire waits.

One crisis at a time.

The grimoire speaks.

Not an attack—just a voice, drifting through the ruins from the direction of the Restricted Stacks. The same layered harmonics as before, the same wrongness that makes my teeth ache.

“How fascinating.”

Thyra stiffens beside me. I reach for my brand, then stop—the metal has finally cooled, the magic spent. It’ll need time to recharge before I can use it again.

Perfect timing.

“A mating mark.” The grimoire’s voice carries a tone of genuine interest. “I haven’t seen one of those in centuries. The magic is beautiful, isn’t it? The way it reaches across boundaries, ignores sensible objections, demands union despite all logic to the contrary.”

“Show yourself.” I step forward, blade raised. “Stop hiding in your pages.”

“I’m not hiding, spell-burner. I’m resting. Your fire was… invigorating.” A pause. “But not as invigorating as watching you discover your mate. Tell me—does it hurt? The first forming? I’ve read accounts, but personal testimony is so much more valuable.”

“I don’t answer to books.”

“No. You burn them.” The voice drops lower, more intimate. “But you can’t burn this one, can you? Not now. Not when burning me means killing her.”

I feel Thyra tense beside me. She steps forward, positions herself at my shoulder rather than behind me, her jaw tight.

“A reasonable precaution, the first keeper thought. Who would dare destroy knowledge if it meant killing an innocent keeper?” A sound that might be laughter. “Though ‘innocent’ hardly applies to you anymore, does it, Thyra Vire?”

Her jaw tightens further. She doesn’t respond.

The grimoire’s pages rustle from somewhere in the darkness.

“Come, spell-burner. Come see what you cannot destroy.”

I should resist. Should stay back, regroup, plan a proper assault. But the mating mark burns over my heart, and the grimoire has answers I need, and Thyra is walking toward the Restricted Stacks with the steady determination of someone who’s made this journey a thousand times.

I follow.

The Stacks are worse than before. The battle tore through the outer chambers, but here at the heart, the damage is different. Books have been rearranged. Chains hang loose from empty lecterns. The containment circles on the floor have been smeared with ink that’s still wet.

And at the center, the grimoire waits.