Page 57 of Orc’s Grimoire

“No.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “No, she wasn’t supposed to breach the wards until dawn⁠—“

“Dawn?” The Author laughs. “Did you think I couldn’t feel them gathering at my doorstep? The High Purger has been waiting for hours, spell-burner. Waiting for you to emerge. Waiting for her chance to burn everything you’ve been protecting.”

The war-horns sound again. Closer now. Much closer.

“Including you.”

Thyra’s hand finds mine.

The contact grounds me—steadies the panic trying to claw its way up my throat. Midori is here. She has fifty spell-burners. Siege equipment designed to breach magical wards. And the Author has just torn those wards wide open, inviting her in with all the spite of a creature who would rather see everything burn than let his enemies escape.

“We need to move.” Thyra’s voice is steady despite everything. “If Midori gets inside before we can⁠—“

“She’ll burn everything. Everyone.” Including us. Including the grimoire that’s still our only path to the Author’s true form. “The Author gets what he wants—chaos and destruction while he retreats into his pages to wait out the storm.”

“Then we don’t let that happen.”

She tugs me toward the Restricted Stacks. Toward the grimoire. Toward the only chance we have of ending this before Midori’s flames consume us all.

The Author watches us go, his script-filled eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Run, little keeper. Run, spell-burner. The High Purger is coming, and she’s so very hungry to burn.” His form begins to dissolve, retreating into the pages. “I’ll be waiting inside. When you’re ready to die.”

He vanishes.

The war-horns sound a third time—so close now that I can hear the thunder of boots beneath them, the roar of spell-burner voices raised in battle-chants.

Midori has arrived.

And she’s coming in burning.

SIXTEEN

THYRA

The brand over my heart still burns.

Not the searing agony of the initial marking—that faded minutes ago, leaving behind a deep, persistent heat that pulses in time with my heartbeat. The mating mark on my collarbone burns in answer. I feel complete in a way I didn’t expect. Whole. As if a door I didn’t know was open has finally closed.

But completeness isn’t the same as comfort.

Korrath stands across the alcove from me, his back to the stone wall, his chest rising and falling with breaths that haven’t quite steadied. We’ve straightened our clothes as best we can—his tunic torn in three places, my robes ruined beyond repair, both of us marked with each other’s violence. Bruises bloom across my hips where his hands gripped too tight. Scratches ladder down his back where my nails drew blood.

I can still feel the ghost of him inside me. The stretch and burn and overwhelming fullness. The way he held me against the wall like I was the only solid thing in a universe coming apart at the seams.

“You’re calculating.”

His voice cuts through my thoughts. I blink, refocus, find him watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“What?”

“Right now. I can see it in your eyes.” He pushes off the wall, takes a step toward me. The alcove isn’t large—that single step cuts the distance between us in half. “You’re running numbers. Weighing risks. Deciding whether you made a mistake binding yourself to me.”

“I’m calculating constantly. It’s what keeps me alive.”

“Is it?” Another step. Close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from him, can smell the copper of blood and the musk of sex still clinging to his skin. “Or is it what keeps you cold?”

The question hits harder than it should.