Page 41 of Orc’s Grimoire

My name sounds different in his mouth. Older. As if he’s known it longer than I’ve been alive.

I force myself to stand straighter. To meet those terrible eyes without flinching. Six years of feeding a monster have given me practice in hiding fear.

“You’re the Author.”

“I am.” He moves closer, and the scholars part before him like water before a ship’s prow. His feet don’t quite touch the floor—I realize with a lurch of my stomach that he’s not fully physical yet. Just a projection, an extension of the grimoire’s will. “You’ve reconstructed my history, I see. Clever keeper. You’ve lasted longer than most.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.” He stops an arm’s length away, and I can smell him now—old paper, dried ink, and beneath that, a trace of what might have been human once. “Six years you’ve fed my grimoire. Six years you’ve bled for it, killed for it, convinced yourself that containment was worth any price. Do you know what that makes you?”

“A survivor.”

“An investment.” His hand rises, and I flinch despite myself. His fingers are ink-dark, stained beyond any hope of cleaning, and they stop just short of my collarbone—where the grimoire’s claiming sigil burns beneath my bandages. “I’ve watched you, Thyra. Through the book’s eyes. Through the pages you touch, the blood you give, the thoughts that brush against my awareness in the quiet hours.”

“I’ve never served you.”

“Haven’t you?” His smile carries three centuries of patience. “Every drop of blood you’ve given the grimoire has strengthened me. Every sacrifice you’ve made has demonstrated your… flexibility. Your pragmatism. Your willingness to do terrible things for what you believe is right.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“No. You’re better.” His hand finally makes contact—ink-cold fingers pressing against the claiming sigil, and fire races through my veins, ice and heat in equal measure. “I had to create my servants from raw material. You came pre-made. A perfect keeper: intelligent, ruthless, already accustomed to feeding hungry things.”

I try to pull away. My body won’t cooperate.

“You’ve fed my grimoire so beautifully.” His voice drops lower, more intimate, carrying notes of every mind he’s edited into service. “Now it’s time to discuss your promotion.”

The mating mark explodes with heat.

Not the warm pulse I’ve grown accustomed to—a blaze, searing, desperate. The mark knows I’m in danger, burning hotter with every passing moment. And wherever Korrath is, his mark will be burning too, pulling him toward me.

The Author’s eyes flick toward my chest, toward the sigil that burns through my bandages with borrowed fire.

“Ah.” His voice carries amusement, curiosity, hunger. “The mating mark. I’d wondered what my grimoire was planning when it encouraged that little development. Orc magic, so beautifully raw and primal. So wonderfully corruptible.”

“He’ll kill you.” The words come out stronger than I feel. “The spell-burner. He’s destroyed older magic than you.”

“Perhaps.” The Author’s fingers trace the edge of my claiming sigil, and I feel ink seeping into my blood, cool and invasive. “But not before I’ve had time to work. You see, Thyra—I don’t need to defeat your mate. I don’t need to fight him at all.”

“Then what do you need?”

His smile widens, and in his script-filled eyes, I see my own face reflected. My own thoughts. My own fears.

“I need you to choose.” His hand presses harder, and the ink burns deeper, threading through my veins toward my heart. “Serve me willingly, and your spell-burner lives. Resist, and I’ll edit him into something that serves me anyway. Either way, I get what I want. The only question is how much you’re willing to sacrifice to spare him pain.”

The scholars rise from their knees, surrounding me. Seventeen faces, serene and devoted. Forty-three years of service from the eldest Elder alone. Three centuries of accumulated converts, all of them watching, waiting, ready to demonstrate their loyalty.

And through the mating mark, I know Korrath is coming. Running. The mark burns hotter with every step he takes toward me, closing the distance between us.

Too late for what?

For rescue? Or for saving me from myself?

The Author’s ink settles deeper into my blood.

And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the horror, a small traitorous part of my mind whispers:

What knowledge could he offer? What secrets? What power?