Page 67 of Orc’s Grimoire

The grimoire’s voice screams in my mind.

THE PHYSICAL FORM—SHE’S BURNING THE PHYSICAL FORM⁠—

An image forces its way into my consciousness—not a memory this time, but the present. The real world. The Restricted Stacks, where the grimoire’s physical body rests on its lectern.

Midori stands over it.

Her pale eyes glow with fanatical fire. Three execution brands hang at her belt, and she’s using all of them—pressing the heated metal to the grimoire’s cover, to its spine, to the edges of pages that curl and blacken under the assault.

The grimoire is burning.

“No.” The word escapes me in a whisper. “No, no, no⁠—“

I can feel it now. The heat spreading through the Codex. The walls around us beginning to sweat, to blister, to char at the edges. The floor beneath my feet softening, destabilizing, threatening to swallow us into liquid ink.

“If the grimoire burns while we’re still inside—“ Korrath’s voice is tight. Controlled. But I can see the realization in his eyes.

“We burn with it.” I finish the thought he won’t voice. “We become ash, absorbed into the book as it dies. And the Author⁠—“

“I escape.” The Author’s voice echoes with triumph. “You didn’t really think I’d let you destroy me, did you? I’ve survived for centuries. When this grimoire burns, I’ll simply find another vessel. Another prison. Another set of fools to torment.”

The walls are definitely burning now. Smoke rises from the parchment-flesh, carrying the stench of cooking meat and crisping paper. The floor groans beneath our feet.

“We need to reach the throne. Now.” I grab Korrath’s arm and run.

But even as we sprint toward the Author’s domain, I can feel the heat building behind us. The grimoire is dying. The Codex is collapsing. And Midori—relentless, fanatical Midori—won’t stop until everything burns.

Including us.

We have minutes. Maybe less. And the Author is still waiting at the center, on his throne of stolen knowledge, watching us race toward a trap that’s been closing around us since the moment we jumped into his pages.

The corridor walls catch fire.

We run faster.

TWENTY-ONE

KORRATH

The world burns around us.

Somewhere outside this nightmare realm, Midori is pressing her brands to the grimoire’s physical form. Every page she burns translates to another section of the Codex collapsing. I can feel the architecture tearing itself apart, centuries of accumulated knowledge dying in flames.

Good. Let it all burn.

But not with us inside.

“There!” Thyra points toward a doorway ahead—the entrance to the throne room, visible through the smoke. “That’s it. That’s where he’ll be.”

I tighten my grip on her hand. Not romantic—practical. If she falls into the dissolving floor, I need to pull her out. If I trip, she needs to anchor me. We’ve been running hand-in-hand since the corridors started crumbling, and neither of us has suggested letting go.

A spell-construct lunges from the burning walls—a word-wraith, script twisted into a vaguely humanoid shape, arms ending in razor-sharp letters. I release Thyra long enough to slash through its form, watch the severed words scatter into the smoke.

More constructs surge from the crumbling walls. I cut through them.

My blade sings through script-flesh and ink-bone. I’ve burned enough living magic to know how to kill it—aim for the word that holds the construct intact, the central concept that gives it form. Shatter that, and the rest falls apart.

The floor lurches beneath us. A section of corridor collapses entirely, plunging into darkness that wasn’t there a moment ago. I yank Thyra sideways, feel her stumble against my chest, steady her with an arm around my waist.