Page 27 of Orc’s Grimoire

And somewhere behind me, in the depths of the Archive, the grimoire laughs.

SEVEN

THYRA

Iwake to pain.

Not the familiar ache of ritual cuts or the dull throb of blood loss. This is different—a blaze across my collarbone, sharp and insistent, like fire pressed to flesh. I reach for my chest before my eyes fully open, fingers finding bandages where skin should be.

What—

“Don’t touch it.” A voice, old and cracked. One of the Archivist Elders. “The marks are still settling.”

I force my eyes open. The infirmary ceiling swims into focus—grey stone, alchemical lanterns burning low, shadows pooling in corners. I’m lying on one of the narrow beds reserved for keepers who push too far. I’ve been here before. More times than I’d like to admit.

But I’ve never woken with this sensation. This brand, seared raw into my skin.

“What marks?” My voice comes out raw. Dry. How long have I been unconscious? “What happened?”

The Elder moves into my field of vision. The oldest of the three who run the Archive—the one who speaks for the others, whose name I’ve never been permitted to know. Her face is grave. Her luminescent eyes carry an expression I’ve never seen before.

Fear.

“The grimoire marked you.” She settles onto the stool beside my bed, movements careful, deliberate. “While you were unconscious. A claiming sigil.”

The words don’t make sense. I’ve been the grimoire’s keeper for six years. I’ve fed it twice daily, bled for it, killed for it. If it wanted to mark me, it’s had thousands of opportunities.

Why now?

I push myself upright despite the Elder’s protests. The room spins. My hands—wrapped in fresh bandages, cleaner than the makeshift strips the spell-burner used—throb with the memory of wounds. But the pain in my collarbone is worse. Deeper.

A claiming sigil. The grimoire is claiming me.

“Show me.”

The Elder hesitates. Then she reaches forward and carefully peels back the bandages covering my chest.

The sigil burns beneath the linen—literally burns, giving off a faint red-gold glow that pulses in time with my heartbeat. Lines of raised skin trace patterns I recognize from the grimoire’s pages. Script that writhes even when carved into flesh, letters that rearrange themselves as I watch.

The mark covers my collarbone from shoulder to shoulder. A brand. A declaration.

MINE.

The word appears in the center of the sigil, rising from the scarred flesh like an accusation. Then it dissolves, replaced by another.

KEEPER.

Then another.

CLAIMED.

“It’s been writing since you lost consciousness.” The Elder’s voice is carefully neutral. “The words change. The mark doesn’t.”

I press my palm against the sigil. The heat is intense—not painful exactly, but present. Insistent. A reminder that the grimoire’s claim goes deeper than blood payment now. Deeper than the binding that’s kept me tethered.

It’s not just using me as an anchor anymore. It’s declaring ownership.

“Why?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Why now? What changed?”