Page 61 of Orc’s Grimoire

“Then you both die.”

She attacks.

Midori moves like lightning wrapped in scarred flesh.

Her execution brand sweeps toward my head in a strike that would cave in my skull if it landed. I parry with my blade, feel the impact jar through my arms, and barely get my feet moving before her follow-up thrust nearly takes me in the ribs.

She’s fast. Faster than she should be at her age, faster than any spell-burner I’ve faced. Thirty years of burning have honed her into a weapon of pure purpose, and that purpose is currently aimed at my throat.

Around us, the Scriptorium continues to burn. Inscribed and spell-burners die in droves, neither side paying any attention to our duel. We’re just two more combatants in a room full of violence, two more killers adding to the body count.

“Run!” I shout at Thyra without taking my eyes off Midori. “Get to the grimoire!”

“I’m not leaving you⁠—“

“I’ll follow! Go!”

I hear Thyra’s footsteps retreating—not fleeing, just repositioning. Smart. She knows she can’t help me in a fight like this. Her knife against Midori’s brands would last approximately two seconds. The best thing she can do is reach the grimoire, open the way to the Inner Codex, and trust me to catch up.

If I survive.

Midori presses her advantage, driving me back across the burning Scriptorium with a flurry of strikes that I barely manage to deflect. Each impact sends shock waves through my arms. Each near-miss comes closer than the last. She’s not toying with me—she’s testing my defenses, learning my patterns, preparing for the killing blow.

“You were my best student.” Her voice doesn’t waver despite the exertion. “The most promising burner I’d trained in decades. And you threw it all away for a woman who feeds monsters.”

“I chose⁠—“

“You let magic choose for you.” She feints left, strikes right, and her brand grazes my forearm hard enough to sear the skin. I hiss in pain but keep my blade up. “The mating mark appeared, and you stopped thinking. Stopped questioning. Just surrendered to the magic like every other fool who’s ever worn one.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” Another strike, another parry that leaves my arms aching. “Tell me, Korrath—did you choose her? Really choose her? Or did the mark make the choice and you convinced yourself it was your own decision?”

The question cuts deeper than her blade ever could.

Because for a moment—one dangerous moment—I don’t know.

The mark or the woman. The magic or the choice. I can’t tell the difference, and that terrifies me more than Midori’s blade ever has.

Midori sees it. Her pale eyes gleam with satisfaction.

“You see it now. The doubt. That’s what magic does, Korrath—it takes your certainty and replaces it with questions you can never answer.” She raises her brand for another strike. “The kindest thing I can do is end it. End you. Before the magic twists you into a creature you’d hate.”

I should be afraid. Should be frantic, scrambling for an advantage, fighting for my life with everything I have.

Instead, I think about Thyra.

About the way she looked at me when I laid her sins bare. The calculation in her eyes, the cold pragmatism that lets her weigh lives like coins. The fact that she didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn away. Just looked back at me and said, “I’d do it again.”

That wasn’t the mark. That was her.

And my response—“That’s why I chose you”—wasn’t compulsion. Wasn’t magic making decisions for me. It was recognition. Two people seeing each other clearly and deciding to stand side by side anyway.

The mating mark didn’t create that. It just gave it a name.

“You’re wrong.”

I catch Midori’s descending brand on my blade, muscles screaming with the effort, and push. She staggers back a step—just a step, but it’s enough.