Page 39 of Orc’s Grimoire

I don’t have an answer. So I keep reading, searching for anything that might help us survive until dawn.

I find the Archivist Elders in the upper gallery.

The three of them sit in their usual positions—the eldest at the center, her two companions flanking her like bookends. They’ve been running the Archive since before I was born, maintaining the systems that keep the grimoire contained, overseeing the keepers who bleed for it.

They’ve also been remarkably calm about the chaos of the past day. Too calm.

I could avoid them. Could work around them, keep my research quiet, try to find a solution they never see coming.

But if the Inscribed are already inside—if the betrayal runs as deep as the grimoire suggests—waiting means being found on their terms, not mine.

Better to force the confrontation now, while I still know where I’m standing.

“Elder.” I stop at the threshold, my hands full of documents, my heart pounding against my ribs. “I need to speak with you about the grimoire’s creator.”

The eldest doesn’t look up from her tea. “The Author is a legend, child. A story keepers tell to frighten themselves.”

“He’s real.” I step forward, spreading the documents across their table despite the younger Elder’s noise of protest. “I found the records. The grimoire was created three centuries ago by a sorcerer who bound himself to its pages. He’s been living inside the book ever since—and he’s been reaching out. Building a network of followers.”

“We’re aware of the historical accounts.” The middle Elder’s voice carries a note of condescension I’ve heard a hundred times before. “The Archive has contained the grimoire for three hundred years. Whatever consciousness might have existed in those pages has long since⁠—“

“He’s not dormant.” I cut her off, a breach of protocol I’ve never committed before. “He’s been editing people. Rewriting their minds through exposure to his ink. The Inscribed the grimoire warned us about—they’re not possessed, they’re converted. Loyal servants who believe they chose this willingly.”

Silence falls across the gallery.

ELEVEN

THYRA

The eldest Elder finally raises her luminescent eyes to meet mine. Her expression is unreadable—but there’s a tension in the set of her jaw, the stillness of her hands, that makes the hair rise on the back of my neck.

“You’ve been researching restricted materials without authorization.”

“I’m the keeper. I have access to everything in this Archive.”

“Access is not the same as permission.” She rises from her chair, and I notice for the first time how steady her movements are. How controlled. “You should rest, Thyra. The past day has been… stressful. You’re seeing threats where none exist.”

“I’m seeing the truth.” I don’t step back, even though every instinct screams at me to run. “The Author is waking. His followers are inside the Archive. And you’re—“ I stop. Look at her more closely. “You’re not surprised by any of this.”

“Why would I be?” The eldest Elder’s lips curve into a smile. “I’ve known for decades.”

The temperature in the gallery drops.

Not physically—the alchemical lanterns burn just as bright, the air moves just as slow. But the space between us changes, a subtle wrongness that raises every hair on my body.

“Elder.” My voice comes out steady. A keeper’s voice. “How long have you been feeding the grimoire extra blood?”

Her smile widens. “Forty-three years. Since the year I became an Elder. The Author contacted me through the pages—showed me what he could offer, what knowledge he could share. I made my choice freely, child. Just as you made yours when you sacrificed those three scholars.”

The words hit like a blade between my ribs.

“Didn’t you?” She moves closer, and I see it now—the faint shimmer in her eyes, script scrolling behind the luminescence. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a whisper of text moving in places text shouldn’t be. “You could have let the grimoire break free. Let it take what it wanted. Instead, you fed it three minds and called it necessary sacrifice.”

“I saved thousands of lives.”

“You made a calculation.” Her hand rises to my face, and I force myself not to flinch. Her fingers are cold where they brush my cheek. “The same calculation I made, forty-three years ago. The same calculation everyone makes who touches the grimoire’s pages. Some knowledge is worth any price. Some power is worth any sacrifice.”

“I’m nothing like you.”