Page 58 of Orc’s Grimoire

“You think I don’t know?” He stops, close enough to touch but not touching. “I’ve been watching you since I arrived. Watching how you handle the grimoire. The Elders. Me. Underneath every careful word and measured response, you’re running calculations.”

“Someone has to.”

His jaw tightens. “You’re an addict.”

The accusation escapes before I can stop it—not because I want to hurt him, but because I need him to know that I see him too. That this exposure goes both ways.

“Yes.” No denial. No justification. He accepts the label like he accepts a blade:

“I did what I had to do.”

“So did I.”

The mating mark burns on my collarbone. The brand burns over my heart. And for the first time since Korrath arrived at the Archive, I feel truly seen.

All of it. Every piece. Every shadow. Every sharp edge I’ve spent years trying to hide.

It’s terrifying.

It’s also—unexpectedly—a relief.

I’ve been hiding for so long. But Korrath didn’t just see through it—he looked at what was underneath and chose to stay.

“That’s why I chose you.” His hands shift, pulling me closer, until our foreheads touch and our breath mingles in the narrow space between us. “Not because the mating mark demanded it. Not because the grimoire forced our paths to cross. Because you’re the same kind of monster I am. And monsters should run in packs.”

I almost laugh. Almost cry. The emotions tangle in my chest until I can’t separate them.

“We’re going to destroy each other.” It’s not a question.

“Probably.” He doesn’t sound concerned. “But we’ll destroy a lot of other things first. Starting with the Author.”

The explosion hits before I can respond.

The alcove shudders. Stone dust rains from the ceiling. Somewhere above us, a section of the Archive just collapsed—I hear the thunder of it, feel the vibration through the floor beneath my feet.

Korrath releases my face, spins toward the corridor, blade appearing in his hand. The mating mark burns on my chest, reminding me of his presence even as he moves away.

“Midori.” His voice is flat. Certain. “She’s breached the outer defenses.”

Another explosion. Closer this time. The alchemical lanterns flicker wildly, blue flames dancing in response to magic being unleashed somewhere in the Archive above us.

We leave the alcove at a run.

The corridor is chaos. Inscribed and spell-burners locked in combat, ink-forged weapons clashing with rune-etched steel. I catch glimpses as we move—robed figures falling beneath execution brands, spell-burners crumpling as liquid darkness tears through their defenses. The Archive is tearing itself apart, and we’re caught in the middle.

Korrath moves ahead of me, his blade clearing a path through the madness. An Inscribed lunges at us from a side passage; he takes her head off without breaking stride. A spell-burner—one of Midori’s people, wearing the Order’s sigil on his chest—turns toward us with recognition in his eyes; Korrath puts him down before he can raise the alarm.

“We can’t fight both sides.” I duck under a spray of ink that would have hit my face, feel the liquid darkness sizzle against the grimoire’s protective sigils on my arm. “There are too many.”

“We’re not fighting. We’re moving.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward a stairwell. “Stay close. Don’t stop for anything.”

“The Restricted Stacks.” I grab Korrath’s arm, pulling him toward a side passage. “We need to reach the grimoire before⁠—“

SEVENTEEN

THYRA

The Author’s laughter echoes through the halls.