Page 45 of Orc’s Grimoire

The Stacks are quiet when we arrive. Too quiet. The grimoire waits on its central lectern, pages closed, chains slack around its cover. It looks dormant—but I’ve learned that appearances mean nothing where this book is concerned.

Thyra moves to one of the research alcoves, pulling down texts and scrolls with practiced efficiency. “If we’re going to face Midori and the Author, we need information. The grimoire’s original containment protocols. The Author’s weaknesses. Anything that might⁠—“

“Keeper.”

The voice comes from the shadows. No hesitation in it, no pretense.

I spin, blade clearing its sheath before I’ve finished turning. Aldric, the senior cataloguer from the gallery, emerges from behind a row of shelving. No hands raised this time.

His posture is certain, unhurried, the script behind his eyes bright and steady.

“The Author sends his terms.” His voice is calm. Practiced. “You have until⁠—“

I move before he finishes.

My blade takes him through the throat.

Blood sprays across the ancient texts. Aldric makes a sound that’s half gurgle, half gasp, and crumples to the floor. Script flickers behind his dying eyes, words crawling faster as if trying to escape, then slowing, dimming, going still.

“Korrath.” Thyra’s voice is sharp. “He was going to tell us the terms.”

“Whatever terms the Author wanted to deliver, they weren’t worth hearing.” I pull my blade free, wipe it clean on my thigh.

She crouches beside the body, studying the slack face, the empty eyes. The script has faded now—whatever animated it dying with its host. But traces remain. Faint lines of text visible just beneath the surface of his pupils, like words written on water.

“Aldric.” Her voice is hollow. “He’s worked here for fifteen years. I’ve shared meals with him. Complained about the grimoire’s demands. He never⁠—“

“He was already dead.” I force the words out, hating the necessity. “The man you knew died when he let the Author edit him. What remained was just a tool.”

“You can’t know that⁠—“

“I’ve destroyed enough twisted magic to recognize the signs.” I meet her eyes across the corpse of her colleague. “The shimmer. The calm. He wasn’t coming with any message worth hearing, Thyra. He was a weapon. Pointed at you.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend him. Just stares at the body with an expression I can’t read—grief, maybe. Or calculation. Or the cold pragmatism that’s kept her alive for six years in a place that eats keepers.

“How many more?” Her voice drops. “How many more are hiding in my Archive?”

“The Elder said seventeen revealed themselves. More could be waiting.” I sheathe my blade, the metal warm from fresh blood. “Anyone you’ve trusted. Anyone with access to the grimoire. Anyone who’s had prolonged exposure to the Author’s influence.”

“That’s everyone.” She rises, her movements stiff. “That’s literally everyone who works here.”

“Then everyone is suspect.”

She stands in the Restricted Stacks, surrounded by chained books and fresh blood, and I realize I’ve never seen her look so lost.

She needs⁠—

I don’t finish the thought. Just close the distance between us.

She doesn’t flinch when I reach for her. Doesn’t step back. Her eyes track my movement, dark and wary, but she holds her ground as my hands find her shoulders, her arms, the tense line of her spine.

“Korrath.” My name on her lips sounds different. Softer. “What are you doing?”

“Checking.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Making sure you’re still here. Still you.”

“And if I’m not?” Her chin lifts, defiance flickering beneath the exhaustion. “If the Author’s already edited me? If everything I’ve done for six years has just been serving his purpose?”

“Then we burn him anyway.” I let my hands slide up to cup her face, tilting her gaze to meet mine. “And we figure out the rest later.”