Page 43 of Orc’s Grimoire

“I’m not yours.” Thyra’s voice cuts through the gallery, sharp and certain. “I’ve never been yours.”

“Haven’t you?” His fingers trace the edge of her claiming sigil, and I see her flinch—a tiny motion, quickly suppressed. “Every drop of blood you’ve given the grimoire has strengthened me. Every sacrifice you’ve made has proven your worth. You’ve been serving me since the day you became keeper, Thyra Vire. The only question is whether you’ll do it willingly.”

“She won’t.” I step into the gallery, blade raised. The kneeling Inscribed don’t react—they stay frozen in their postures of devotion, as if I don’t exist. “And if you don’t release her in the next three seconds, I’ll show you what spell-burners do to living magic.”

The Author laughs. The sound echoes off the gallery walls, carrying notes of every mind he’s ever rewritten.

“You can’t kill me, spell-burner. Not here. Not like this.” He releases Thyra’s collarbone, stepping back with the fluid grace of something not quite human. “I’m offering her a choice. Serve me willingly, and you both survive. Resist, and⁠—“

“And you’ll edit me into obedience?” I move closer, positioning myself between him and Thyra.

“I’ve heard that threat before. From older magic than you.”

“Have you survived it?”

“I’ve burned it.”

The Author studies me with those terrible, word-filled eyes. I can feel him assessing me—not just my physical threat, but my magical signature, my history, the traces of every spell I’ve ever destroyed. The grimoire reads practitioners like books. Its creator reads them like footnotes.

“Interesting.” He tilts his head, text crawling across his features in new patterns. “The High Purger’s favorite student, claimed by my keeper’s fate. I didn’t anticipate that development.”

“Life is full of surprises.”

“Indeed.” He glances at Thyra, then back to me. “I’ll give you time, spell-burner. Both of you. Consider my offer. The alternative—“ He gestures at the kneeling Inscribed, at their serene faces and script-filled eyes. “The alternative is less pleasant for everyone involved.”

“There is no alternative. The grimoire burns. You burn with it.”

“We’ll see.” The Author’s form begins to fade, edges blurring, text dissolving into shadow. “We’ll see.”

He’s gone between one heartbeat and the next—not walking away, just ceasing to be present. The Inscribed rise from their knees as if released from strings, their movements unhurried, their expressions placid.

“The Author will return when you’ve made your choice.” The eldest Elder—I recognize her now, her luminescent eyes bright with borrowed script—addresses Thyra with gentle condescension. “Take your time, keeper. He’s been patient for three centuries. A few more hours won’t matter.”

She leads the Inscribed from the gallery, seventeen servants filing out in perfect order. None of them look at me. None of them acknowledge the blade still raised in my hand.

The door closes behind them.

And then it’s just us, standing in the wreckage of everything Thyra thought she knew about her Archive.

“Are you hurt?”

The question comes out rougher than intended. I cross to her in three strides, reaching for her face, her shoulders, her hands—checking for damage, for wounds, for any sign that the Author’s touch left marks beyond the ones already scarring her skin.

“I’m fine.” She catches my wrists, stilling my frantic assessment. Her fingers are cool against my pulse points. “Korrath. I’m fine.”

“He was touching you. His ink⁠—“

“Tried to seep into my blood. I felt it.” Her jaw tightens. “The mating mark burned it out. Your mark protected me.”

I stare at her. The mating mark protected her. The orc magic that I’ve been half-ignoring, half-denying, actively shielded her from the Author’s influence.

Because she’s mine. The mark knows it, even if I’ve been too stubborn to accept it.

“How long?” My voice sounds strange in my own ears. “How long has the Archive been compromised?”

“Decades. Maybe longer.” She releases my wrists, stepping back, and the loss of contact leaves me cold despite the mark’s persistent warmth. “The eldest Elder has been serving him for forty-three years. The others—I don’t know. Some of them might have been Inscribed before I became keeper.”

“Every archivist. Every scholar. Any of them could be⁠—“