Page 54 of Orc’s Grimoire

I pull her into an alcove as the corridor ripples again, Inscribed flowing past us like water around a stone. The Author’s attention is elsewhere for the moment—focused on reshaping the Archive’s architecture, on corralling us toward whatever trap he’s building.

We have minutes. Maybe less.

“The mating mark.” I press my palm against my chest, where the sigil burns beneath my tunic. “It can be completed. Sealed permanently. If we do that—if we finish the claiming—we become a closed circuit. Two minds instead of one. Harder to edit. Maybe impossible to rewrite without breaking both of us.”

“Completed how?”

“Blood. Fire.” I meet her eyes, dark and calculating even in the midst of chaos. “Mating.”

Understanding dawns in her expression. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

“You’re saying you need to brand me. Complete the physical claiming. Right here, right now, with Inscribed trying to kill us and the Author tearing reality apart around our heads.”

“Yes.”

“And this will protect us? Both of us?”

“It will make us harder to crack. Won’t stop him forever, but it will buy us time. Force him to fight both of us instead of picking us off one by one.”

Silence stretches between us. The corridor groans with impossible geometries. Somewhere in the distance, Inscribed are chanting in languages that died before the Veil fell.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I fight until I can’t fight anymore. And when I fall, he takes you.” I don’t soften the truth. She deserves better than comfortable lies. “I won’t force this, Thyra. But I need you to understand what we’re facing.”

She reaches up, touches my face. Her fingers are cool against my jaw, steadying in a way I didn’t expect.

“I’ve been making impossible choices for six years, spell-burner.” A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “This one’s easier than most.”

“Thyra—“

“Do it.”

I don’t waste time with questions or confirmations.

I drag her deeper into the alcove, away from the chaos of the corridor, and press her back against the cold stone wall. My execution brand goes into my belt—I’ll need both hands for this. My blade I keep within reach. The Inscribed won’t stay confused forever.

“This will hurt.” I’m already pulling at her robes, finding the laces that hold them closed, my fingers clumsy with urgency. “The branding. The completion. It’s not⁠—“

“I’ve been bleeding for a grimoire for six years.” She helps me with the laces, her hands steadier than mine. “I know what pain feels like.”

The robes fall open. Underneath, she’s wearing a thin shift that hides nothing—the grimoire’s sigils visible through the fabric, glowing faintly red-gold against her pale skin. The claiming mark on her collarbone pulses with answering heat, recognizing what’s coming, demanding completion.

Mine. She’s mine. The mark knows it. I know it. Time to make her know it too.

I tear the shift.

She gasps—not in protest, but in response to the cold air hitting bare skin. I drink in the sight of her: small breasts, flat stomach, the ladder of scars climbing her forearms from years of ritual bleeding. The grimoire’s marks wrap her torso like armor made of living script.

Beautiful. Damaged. Perfect.

“The brand.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I need to press it to your skin. Over your heart. It will burn my mark into you permanently—complete what the claiming started.”

“I know what branding means, spell-burner.” She reaches for my belt, finds the brand’s handle, pulls it free. The metal glows faintly with contained heat—not hot enough to burn on its own, but ready. Waiting. “Stop explaining and start claiming.”

I take the brand from her hand.

And I kiss her.