Page 29 of Orc’s Grimoire

“You were already bound to it.”

“This is different.” I pull at the collar of my robe, exposing the edge of the bandages. Beneath them, the sigil’s glow is visible—red-gold light seeping through the linen. “The original binding was containment. This is possession. The grimoire isn’t just using me as an anchor anymore. It’s claiming me as property.”

Korrath’s jaw tightens. His hand moves toward his chest—a reflexive gesture, fingers pressing against the spot where his mating mark burns. I noticed that mark during the battle, caught a glimpse of it through his torn shirt. Sigils that shouldn’t exist for him. Magic that shouldn’t have chosen me.

“The binding still stands.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Your mission is complicated.”

“I know.” His voice is flat. “You mentioned that before.”

“My mission hasn’t changed.” He takes another step closer, and suddenly the distance between us has shrunk to almost nothing. I can smell him—smoke and iron and the char of recent battle. The scent should repulse me. Instead, it makes my pulse quicken. “I came here to destroy the grimoire. That’s still the objective.”

“Even if it kills me?”

The question hangs in the air. His expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker in his eyes. The hesitation he can’t quite hide.

“The binding breaks when the keeper dies.” The words are deliberate. Measured. “Most of them.”

“Most of them.” I let the emphasis land. “And the exceptions?”

“The magic goes somewhere. Usually into whoever’s closest.” His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “Usually messily.”

EIGHT

THYRA

Achill runs through me that has nothing to do with the corridor’s temperature. I’ve read the records. I know what happens when a keeper’s death releases bound magic without proper containment. The first keeper’s death killed seventeen archivists when the power discharged. The second killed forty-three.

The grimoire is stronger now than it was then. Much stronger.

“Burn me, and whatever’s inside those pages goes free. You know what that means.”

“The Order wants the grimoire destroyed. They don’t care about collateral damage.”

“Do you?”

Another flicker. Another hesitation. His hand is still pressed to his chest, fingers spread over the mating mark I can feel pulsing beneath my own skin.

The mark responds to him. Recognizes him. Wants him.

He reaches out—slowly, deliberately—and catches my wrist. His fingers wrap around the bandages covering my palm, pressing against wounds that haven’t finished healing.

The contact ignites every nerve in my arm. Not pain—not exactly. More like awareness. Recognition. My body lights up, screaming at me to lean closer, to close the distance, to⁠—

“The mark changes things.” I don’t pull away. Can’t make myself pull away. “The original binding was a chain. This is a leash. The grimoire can feel what I feel now. See what I see. If I find a way to destroy it, it will know before I can act.”

“Then find a way it can’t predict.”

“During the battle. The grimoire fed on your destruction. Every construct you killed made it stronger.” I take a step back, putting distance between us that feels necessary and wrong at the same time. “Your fire woke the Author. Your burning fueled the attack. If you keep fighting the way you’ve been trained to fight, you’ll just make things worse.”

“I’m supposed to, what? Let the next attack kill me?”

“I’m supposed to find another way.” I meet his gaze. “That’s what keepers do. We find ways to contain what can’t be destroyed. To manage what can’t be killed.”

“And if there is no other way?”

The question echoes between us. I don’t have an answer.

I hold up my bandaged hand—three fingers extended, blood seeping through the white linen. “Give me three days. I’ll find a solution, or⁠—“