Page 51 of Orc’s Grimoire

“The Stacks!” I grab Korrath’s arm, pulling him toward the door that leads deeper into the Archive. “We need to get to the grimoire!”

We fight our way through.

The Inscribed are everywhere—filing through corridors, emerging from alcoves, blocking every route except the one that leads down. Down to the Restricted Stacks. Down to the grimoire that’s screaming warnings in my mind.

THEY’RE HERDING YOU. IT’S A TRAP.

I know.

I slash at an Inscribed who gets too close, my blade opening a gash across her cheek. She doesn’t flinch. Just keeps coming, ink-forged sword raised, script rolling behind her serene eyes.

But what choice do we have?

NONE. THAT’S THE POINT.

Korrath is a hurricane of violence.

His blade carves through the Inscribed without mercy—these aren’t victims, he’d told me. They chose this. And now they’re dying for their choice, bodies crumpling in his wake, blood pooling on ancient stone.

I stay close behind him, using my knife when I must, letting his destruction clear the path. The grimoire’s marks burn on my skin, and I feel them working—deflecting a blow that should have opened my arm to the bone, absorbing an ink-spell that splashes against my ribs and dissolves harmlessly.

Protection. The grimoire wasn’t lying.

We burst into the Restricted Stacks.

The grimoire waits on its lectern, pages thrashing, chains rattling. Around it, more Inscribed have formed a circle—not attacking the book, just containing it. Preventing it from acting directly.

And at the center of the Stacks, standing between us and the grimoire, the Author manifests in full terrible glory.

He’s more solid than before. More present. His robes of living text have darkened, the script crawling faster, patterns rearranging with furious speed. His face—handsome, ancient, wrong—is twisted with rage.

“You marked her.” He’s not speaking to us. His terrible, word-filled eyes are fixed on the grimoire, burning with three centuries of betrayal. “You gave her your protection. After everything I created you to be⁠—“

YOU CREATED ME TO BE A PRISON. YOU MADE ME A CAGE FOR YOUR IMMORTALITY AND CALLED IT A GIFT. I OWE YOU NOTHING, AUTHOR. LEAST OF ALL LOYALTY.

“You owe me your existence!”

AND I HAVE SPENT THREE HUNDRED YEARS PAYING THAT DEBT IN SUFFERING.

The Author turns to face us, and his rage settles into cold, calculated fury.

“If the book won’t obey me—“ His gaze locks onto mine, and I feel the force of his attention like a physical blow. “I’ll simply write a new keeper.”

The Inscribed surge forward.

Not at Korrath—at me. A dozen of them, ink-forged weapons raised, moving with coordinated precision that speaks of the Author’s direct control. They’re trying to separate us. Trying to isolate me from the spell-burner, from the grimoire, from anyone who might interfere with what the Author wants to do.

Korrath roars and wades into them, his blade singing destruction. But there are too many, and they’re not trying to kill him—just slow him down. Block his path. Keep him occupied while the Author closes the distance between us.

“You could have been mine willingly.” The Author’s voice carries harmonics of every mind he’s edited, layers of stolen thought given terrible voice. “I offered you knowledge. Power. A place in my new order. And you chose—“ His lip curls. “A spell-burner. A destroyer. A man who exists only to unmake what I create.”

“I chose myself.” I raise my knife, knowing it won’t be enough. The grimoire’s marks burn on my skin, and I feel the book straining against its containment, trying to help, blocked by the circle of Inscribed who hold it prisoner. “I chose to stop being your tool.”

“Then you’ll be my raw material instead.”

He reaches for me—ink-dark fingers stretching toward my face, toward my mind, toward everything I am⁠—

And the mating mark explodes.