Page 26 of Orc’s Grimoire

It has changed.

The cover is unmistakably skin now, no ambiguity left. The chains holding it to the lectern are no longer vibrating. They are still. Slack. As if they are no longer needed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. “Destruction is so nourishing. Your fire fed me well, spell-burner. I’m stronger now than I’ve been in decades.”

Thyra makes a sound—half sob, half curse. Her hands are still wrapped in bloody cloth, and she’s swaying on her feet, but she forces herself forward, reaching for the grimoire’s cover.

“Don’t—“ I start.

The pages turn on their own.

Script crawls across the exposed parchment, forming words in that familiar blood-red ink.

SHE IS BOUND TO ME.

I feel the truth of it in my chest. The mating mark pulses, recognizing the claim, acknowledging the complication.

IF I DIE, SHE DIES.

Thyra’s face is grey. She doesn’t dispute the words. Doesn’t argue. Just stands there, bloody and broken, waiting to see what I’ll do.

BURN US BOTH, SPELL-BURNER.

The script rearranges, forming the final words larger than the rest.

I DARE YOU.

Silence falls across the Restricted Stacks.

I stare at the grimoire’s message, feeling the truth of it settle in my chest beside the warmth of the mating mark. Two claims. Two bindings. One woman caught between them.

She’s bound to me. The mating mark says so. If she dies, I⁠—

I don’t know what happens to an orc whose claimed mate dies. The stories vary. Some say madness. Some say death. Some say a cold emptiness that never fills, a wound that never heals.

I look at Thyra. She’s watching me with that watchful gaze, waiting for my decision. Waiting to see if I’ll put my mission above her life. Waiting to see what kind of monster I really am.

You came here to burn the grimoire. Those were your orders. That was the mission.

But the mission didn’t account for this. For her. For the mark burning over your heart.

I sheathe my blade. Lower my spent brand to my side. Meet her gaze across the wreckage of the Archive.

“Three days.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears. “I gave you three days to find a solution. That hasn’t changed.”

“And if there is no solution?”

Then I have to choose between my duty and my mate.

The thought should horrify me. Should enrage me. I’ve spent twenty years building an identity around destruction, around the Order, around the certainty of purpose.

Instead, I just feel tired.

“Find one.” I turn away from the grimoire, from its taunting message, from the impossible choice it’s laid at my feet. “Three days, Thyra. Use them well.”

I walk out of the Restricted Stacks without looking back.

The mating mark sears into my flesh with every step.