Page 52 of Orc’s Grimoire

Light blazes from my collarbone, red-gold fire that makes the Author recoil, hissing. Korrath’s mark answers from across the room, twin flames finding each other across the chaos of battle. I know where he is—exactly where he is—fighting toward me through the press of Inscribed bodies.

MINE.

I see it in his face as he cuts through the Inscribed. In the fury of his blade, the roar that tears from his throat. In every step that brings him closer to me.

She’s MINE.

“Interesting.” The Author studies the light blazing from my chest, calculation replacing rage in his script-filled eyes. “The orc magic responds to threat. Protects its claim.” He tilts his head, text crawling across his features. “But protection isn’t immunity, keeper. The mating mark can slow me down. It cannot stop me.”

He reaches again.

And this time, the grimoire breaks free.

Chains shatter. The lectern cracks. Ink floods the Restricted Stacks, not as constructs but as raw power, slamming into the circle of Inscribed and scattering them like leaves in a storm.

RUN. FIND THE INNER CODEX. FIND THE WAY IN. I’LL HOLD HIM AS LONG AS I CAN.

Korrath is at my side in an instant, his hand closing around my arm, pulling me toward the doorway at the far end of the Stacks. Behind us, the Author and the grimoire clash—creator against creation, three centuries of hatred finally erupting into war.

“GO!” the grimoire screams. “GO NOW!”

FIFTEEN

KORRATH

We run.

And behind us, the Archive begins to tear itself apart.

Blood and ink and screaming steel.

The Inscribed flood the corridor like a tide of devoted madness, ink-forged weapons gleaming in the dim alchemical light. They pour from doorways and side passages, cutting off our escape, herding us back toward the Restricted Stacks where the Author waits with ancient patience finally breaking into rage.

I count twelve. Fifteen. More emerging from shadows that seem too small to hold them.

They chose this.

They die for it.

The first Inscribed reaches me with an ink-forged sword raised high—a downward strike that would split my skull if it landed. I step inside the arc, let the blade whistle past my shoulder, and open his throat with a horizontal slash that sprays blood across the ancient stone.

He crumples without a sound. The script behind his eyes flickers and dies.

Two more take his place.

I’ve been a weapon for twenty years. My blade tears through cult robes and flesh with equal efficiency. My execution brand burns through magical defenses, searing ink-wrought shields into smoke and scattered sigils. Blood pools beneath my boots, makes the floor slick, forces me to adjust my stance with every strike.

An Inscribed with a spell-staff lunges from my left. I catch the staff on my forearm—the impact sends pain lancing up to my shoulder—and drive my blade through her chest. She looks surprised as she falls. They all look surprised. As if they expected their devotion to protect them.

Devotion doesn’t stop steel. Faith doesn’t slow fire.

I’ve learned that lesson a hundred times over twenty years of burning. The Inscribed are learning it now.

“Korrath!”

Thyra’s voice cuts through the chaos. I spin, blade dripping, and see her pressed against the corridor wall with three Inscribed closing in. Her knife is in her hand—useless against ink-forged weapons—and the grimoire’s sigils on her arms are blazing, but she’s no warrior. She’s a keeper. A scholar. A woman who fights with blood and calculation, not steel.

I’m too far away.