Page 53 of Orc’s Grimoire

The nearest Inscribed raises his weapon—a curved blade that drips with liquid darkness—and I know I won’t reach her in time.

I throw my execution brand.

The weapon isn’t designed for throwing. It’s heavy, awkward, meant for pressing against magical anchors while I speak the words of ending. But desperation doesn’t care about design specifications. The brand spins through the air and catches the Inscribed in the temple, sending him staggering sideways, his killing stroke going wide.

Wide enough for Thyra to move.

She ducks under the curved blade, drives her knife into the Inscribed’s armpit—the gap in his robes, the soft flesh beneath—and twists. He screams. Falls. She’s already moving toward me, her face pale but determined, her knife wet with blood that isn’t hers.

That’s my mate. That’s the woman I’m claiming.

The thought arrives without permission, primal and absolute. I cut down another Inscribed who tries to intercept her and catch her arm as she reaches me, pulling her close, positioning her at my back where I can protect her.

“Stay behind me.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“You’re not a killer either.” I retrieve my execution brand from the fallen Inscribed’s skull, the metal warm with fresh violence. “Let me do what I was trained for.”

The Author’s voice echoes through the corridor, resonating from walls and floor and ceiling, carrying harmonics of every mind he’s ever edited.

“Touching. The spell-burner protects his little keeper.” His manifested form materializes at the far end of the hallway, robes crawling with living text, eyes burning with script that rearranges into patterns of fury. “But protection is temporary, spell-burner. I’ve outlived empires. How long can you keep fighting?”

More Inscribed emerge behind him. Dozens now. Too many to count, too many to kill before exhaustion drags me down.

“Long enough.” I raise my blade, feel the familiar heft of it, the promise of ending it represents. “I’ve burned older things than you.”

“Have you?” The Author’s smile carries condescension older than empires. “Have you really?”

He gestures, and the Archive reshapes around us.

The corridor twists. Walls that were solid stone become doorways. Doorways that led to familiar passages now open onto impossible spaces—rooms that shouldn’t exist, halls that curve back on themselves, architecture that defies geometry and reason.

The floor beneath my feet ripples like water.

I grab Thyra and pull her close as the world rearranges, keeping her anchored to me while reality loses its meaning. Inscribed stumble and fall, disoriented by their master’s manipulation. But the Author doesn’t care about his servants. He’s trying to separate us—trying to isolate Thyra so he can reach her mind without me standing in the way.

“You can’t protect her forever.” His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. “Eventually you’ll tire. Eventually you’ll fall. And then she’ll be mine to rewrite.”

“Never.”

“Such certainty.” The corridor stretches impossibly, pulling us apart despite my grip on her arm. “Let’s test it.”

Not the warm pulse of proximity or the insistent heat of desire. This is fire—pure, consuming, demanding. The mark knows we’re in danger. Knows the Author is trying to tear us apart. And it’s screaming at me to do what I’ve been avoiding since the moment the sigil first seared into my flesh.

Complete the claiming.

I know the lore well enough. A completed claiming creates a closed circuit. Two minds instead of one—harder to edit. Maybe impossible to rewrite. It would bind us permanently, in ways only death can undo.

“Korrath.” Her voice pulls me back. She’s pressed against me in the chaos of the reshaping corridor, her body warm through her robes, her heart hammering hard enough that I can feel it against my chest. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The Author’s trying to separate us. If he succeeds⁠—“

“He’ll rewrite me. I know.” Her jaw sets with that stubborn determination I’ve come to recognize. “What do we do?”

“There’s a way. But you won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”