Page 44 of Orc’s Grimoire

“Yes.” The word falls heavy between us. “Any of them.”

We stand in the gallery, surrounded by empty chairs and abandoned tea cups, and I realize that we’re alone in a way I didn’t understand until now. Not just physically alone. Strategically alone. The Archive we thought might shelter us is enemy territory. The colleagues Thyra trusted are converted servants. And Midori is riding toward us with fire in her heart and destruction in her orders.

We have no allies. We have no safe ground. We have nothing but each other and a mating mark that neither of us asked for.

It’ll have to be enough.

Running footsteps in the corridor.

I spin, blade raised, as a young man bursts through the gallery doors. Not an archivist—I recognize the uniform. One of Bren’s squad, one of my spell-burners. His face is grey with exhaustion and fear.

“Commander.” He skids to a halt, gasping for breath. “Message from the encampment. Priority signal.”

I sheathe my blade and take the sealed pouch from his trembling hands. The wax bears the Order’s sigil—a burning book crossed with an iron brand. I break it and read.

The words blur. Refocus. Blur again.

“Commander?” Thyra’s voice, careful and controlled. “What is it?”

“Midori.” I fold the message, tuck it into my belt. The motion is automatic—muscle memory from twenty years of receiving orders I didn’t want. “She’s accelerated her arrival. Again.”

“When?”

“Dawn.” The word tastes like ash. “She’ll be here by dawn. And she’s not coming alone.”

The messenger shifts nervously. “The scouts report fifty spell-burners, Commander. Full purge contingent. Siege equipment for breaching magical wards.”

Fifty. Midori’s bringing fifty spell-burners to destroy an Archive that contains one sentient grimoire and seventeen willing converts. It’s overkill on a scale that borders on paranoia.

Or she knows more than she should. Knows about the Author’s awakening. Knows about the Inscribed.

Knows about the mating mark.

Bren. Of course it was Bren. He looked back at the gates—and he’s too good a soldier not to report what he saw.

“Dismissed.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “Return to the encampment. Tell Bren to prepare for extraction—anyone who wants to leave before Midori arrives has permission.”

“And you, Commander?”

“I’m staying.”

The messenger’s eyes flick to Thyra, then back to me. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s smart enough not to say it aloud. He salutes and retreats, leaving us alone in the gallery once more.

“Who is she?”

Thyra’s question breaks the silence that’s settled between us. She’s moved to one of the abandoned chairs, perching on its edge, her bandaged hands folded in her lap. She looks exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, pallor in her cheeks, tremors she can’t quite hide.

“Midori.” I pace the gallery, unable to stand still. “High Purger of the Order of Ash. Thirty years of service. She was my mentor, once.” I stop at the window, staring at the shadows pooling in the corridors below. “She doesn’t negotiate. She doesn’t make exceptions. And she’ll burn everything she thinks is contaminated.”

“Including you.”

“Including me.”

We descend to the Restricted Stacks in silence.

The Archive feels different now—hostile in ways it wasn’t before. Every shadow could hide an Inscribed servant. Every whisper from chained books could be the Author’s voice, reaching out, testing our defenses. The claiming sigil on Thyra’s collarbone glows faintly through her robe, pulsing in counterpoint to the mark on my chest.

Two bindings. Two claims. And somehow we have to survive them both.