Page 31 of Orc’s Grimoire

“Why less?”

His jaw tightens. “Because the Order doesn’t trust me to handle this alone. They’re sending reinforcements. High Purger Midori. She’ll be here in two days, maybe less.”

High Purger Midori. I know the name. Every keeper knows the name—the zealot, the fanatic, the spell-burner who believes all magic is poison. If she arrives before we find a solution…

“She’ll burn everything.” I don’t make it a question. “The Archive. The grimoire. You and me.”

“Me?” His brow furrows. “I’m Order. I’m one of hers.”

“You’re bound now.” I gesture at the sigils on his chest, still visible through his torn shirt. “The grimoire’s mark. Midori won’t care that it was forced on you. She’ll see contamination. She’ll see a threat that needs eliminating.”

The truth of it settles between us. Two days. We have two days before the Order sends someone who won’t negotiate, won’t wait, won’t hesitate.

The grimoire’s voice echoes through the corridor.

Not from the Restricted Stacks—from everywhere. From the walls, the floor, the very air around us. The sigils on my chest and his flare in unison, pulsing with light that matches the rhythm of the voice.

“Bound.”

One word. One declaration. The grimoire doesn’t need to say more.

I feel it now—the new link between us, forged from six years of my blood and the impossible magic of his mating mark. When I focus, I can sense his heartbeat without touching him. Can feel the edges of his emotions—rage and fear and beneath them, buried deep, a want that mirrors my own.

The grimoire bound us. Keeper and burner. Prey and predator. Now neither of us can move against it without the other feeling the consequences.

“Clever.” Korrath’s voice is bitter. “Use the mating mark as a conduit. Use her blood as a foundation. Create a link that can’t be severed without killing them both.”

The grimoire laughs. The sound floods the corridor—old paper and older pain, something vast amused at something small—wrapping around us like chains.

“You came to burn me, spell-burner. Now burning me means burning her. And burning her means burning yourself.” A pause. “How does it feel to be trapped?”

Korrath doesn’t answer. His hand has found mine—when did that happen? Who reached first?—and his fingers lace through mine with a grip that borders on painful.

I see it in his face. The fury. The helplessness. The desperate need to destroy something, anything, to exercise the addiction that’s been his companion for twenty years.

And beneath it all, threading through the rage like gold through dark cloth, I see how he looks at me. The way his breathing steadies when I step closer. The way his hand in mine quiets the tremor in his muscles.

Which binding is real? Which pull is manufactured?

Does it matter?

The grimoire’s laughter fades. The sigils dim. And we’re left standing in a dark corridor, hand in hand, bound by magic older than either of us understand.

Two days until Midori arrives.

I look at the spell-burner—at the man who came to kill me, who’s now bound to me in ways neither of us chose—and I make a decision.

“We need to find the Author’s weakness.” I don’t release his hand. Can’t make myself release it. “Before Midori gets here. Before the grimoire realizes what we’re doing.”

“How?” His fingers tighten around mine. “The binding—you said it can feel what you feel. See what you see.”

“The binding is new. The grimoire is still learning what it can access.” I step closer, close enough that our chests nearly touch, close enough that the sigils on our flesh pulse in synchronization. “We have a window. A small one. If we move fast…”

“If we move fast?”

“Then maybe we can find a way to end this before the grimoire realizes we’re trying.”

His free hand rises to my face. Rough fingers trace my cheekbone, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. The touch is gentle in a way I didn’t expect from him. Tender in a way that makes my chest ache.