Page 37 of Orc’s Grimoire

“And the Inscribed?”

“We deal with them when we find them.” I meet her eyes—dark, scared, determined despite everything. “For now, we focus on staying alive. On finding a way to sever your binding before Midori burns us both.”

“And the mating mark?” Her voice drops. “What do we do about that?”

The question hangs between us. I feel the mark pulsing against my chest, feel the gravity toward her that hasn’t faded since I walked into the Scriptorium. If anything, it’s grown stronger. More insistent.

What do you do about a mating mark that claims you’ve found your mate in the worst possible person at the worst possible time?

“I can’t answer that.” The truth, stripped bare. “The mating mark is orc magic. Old magic. Breaking it may not be possible.”

“Do you want it broken?”

Another honest question. Another hard answer.

“I haven’t decided.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods once, sharply, and turns back to her research.

I stand in the Scriptorium, surrounded by warnings written in blood-red ink, feeling the mating mark sear beneath my skin and the grimoire’s claim pulse beside it. Somewhere in this Archive, the Author’s faithful are waiting. Somewhere beyond the iron gates, Midori is riding toward us with fire in her eyes and destruction in her heart.

And here I am, bound to a woman I was sent to kill, wanting things I shouldn’t want, making choices I’ll probably regret.

This isn’t what you were trained for. This isn’t what you became.

But maybe it’s what I’m becoming.

I move to Thyra’s side and begin sorting through the scattered research.

Twelve hours.

I’ve faced worse odds.

TEN

THYRA

The oldest records are kept in iron boxes.

I pull another from the shelf, ignoring the rust that flakes onto my bandaged fingers. The Archive’s founding documents haven’t been touched in decades—the Elders keep them locked away, claiming preservation concerns. But I have the keeper’s access. I have blood on my hands that opens every door in this place.

And I need answers.

The grimoire’s warning echoes in my mind. The Inscribed walk among you. Faithful servants. Willing tools. If the book is telling the truth—and the grimoire, for all its hunger, rarely lies—then I’ve been surrounded by traitors for six years. The question is how deep the betrayal runs.

And whether I’m part of it.

I spread the documents across the reading table, careful to avoid the alchemical lantern’s flame. The parchment is brittle, yellowed with age, covered in script that predates the Archive’s current organizational system. Three centuries of keepers, scholars, Elders. Three centuries of bleeding for a book that’s been playing games far longer than any of us realized.

The Scriptorium around me stands empty. The scribes have fled or been dismissed—I’m not sure which, and I’m not sure it matters. What matters is silence, solitude, and time to understand what we’re truly facing.

Find the Author. Understand what he is. Then figure out how to kill him.

Korrath’s words from an hour ago, rough and practical. He’d left to check the perimeter, to make sure Midori’s advance scouts hadn’t gotten any closer. The absence of him creates a hollow in my chest—not pain, exactly, but awareness. The mating mark on my collarbone hums faintly, tracking his location the way a compass tracks north.

It shouldn’t comfort me. It does anyway.

I force my attention back to the documents and begin to read.