Page 34 of Orc’s Grimoire

“This is different.”

“Is it?” She rises from her seat, and the motion brings her close—close enough that I can see the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her skin, the trembling in her bandaged hands. “The grimoire claims me. The mating mark claims me. Everyone wants a piece of Thyra Vire, but no one asks what Thyra Vire wants.”

“What do you want?”

The question surprises us both. I didn’t intend to ask it—didn’t intend to care about her answer. But the words are out, and she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t read, and the mating mark blazes over my heart with an intensity that borders on pain.

“I want to survive.” Her voice drops, loses some of its bitter edge. “I want to stop bleeding for things that will never be satisfied. I want…” She trails off, shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what I want. We have two days. Maybe less.”

“Midori.”

“You think she’d burn me?”

“Look at your chest.” She doesn’t glance up from her work. “The grimoire’s mark is carved into your flesh. The mating mark ties you to its keeper. By Midori’s standards, you’re already lost.”

I know Midori. Trained with her, years ago—and what she was then was nothing compared to what the stories say she’s become.

She’s worse now. You’ve heard the stories. Seen the reports.

“Then we need to find a solution before she arrives.” I move to stand beside Thyra, looking down at the chaos of her research. “What have you found?”

“Nothing useful.” She pushes a stack of scrolls aside, revealing a diagram beneath—a complex pattern of sigils surrounding a central circle. “The binding between me and the grimoire was established by the first keeper, three centuries ago. It’s been maintained ever since, passed from keeper to keeper, growing stronger with each transfer.”

“Can it be broken?”

“Every binding can be broken.” She traces the diagram with one bandaged finger, leaving a smear of blood on the parchment. “But this one requires a specific condition. The keeper must die, or the grimoire must die, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or the Author must release the claim willingly.” She looks up at me, her expression grim. “And since the Author is a three-century-old consciousness trapped in his own creation, I doubt he’s feeling generous.”

I study the diagram, trying to make sense of the intricate patterns. My training was in destruction, not understanding—I learned to burn magic, not to dissect it. But I can see the logic here. The binding is a closed system. Energy flows from keeper to grimoire and back again, with no exit point.

Unless someone opens one.

“The mating mark.” I tap the diagram, indicating the central circle. “When it formed, you said the grimoire used it as a conduit. Used my mating magic to reach you, to create a new claim.”

“Yes.”

“Then the mating mark created an opening. A new pathway in the binding.” I meet her eyes. “What if we could use that pathway to extract you instead of chain you?”

She stares at me for a long moment. I watch her processing the idea, that clever mind turning it over, examining it from every angle.

“It would require blood.” Her voice is thoughtful now, losing some of its exhaustion. “Yours and mine. The mating mark responds to shared sacrifice.”

“I can bleed.”

“Can you?” She moves closer, close enough that the sigil-heat coming off her skin reaches me before she does, and the mating mark responds to that warmth like fire to fuel. “The Order trains spell-burners to destroy, not to give. Bleeding for magic goes against everything you believe.”

“I’ve done a lot of things that go against what I believe in the past two days.”

“Such as?”

Delaying the purge. Sending my squad away. Standing here in the dark with a woman who feeds monsters, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between us and⁠—

“Such as this.”

I reach for her.