Page 7 of Orc’s Grimoire

It will be starving until one of us is gone.

But tonight, for the first time since I became its keeper, I think I understand why.

A reckoning is coming. A force worse than a spell-burner, worse than the Order of Ash, worse than anything the Elders have prepared for.

And the grimoire wants to be ready.

“Until tomorrow,”

I whisper into the darkness.

Somewhere below, in the Restricted Stacks where craving books wait in chains, the grimoire hears me.

And laughs.

THREE

KORRATH

The manor stinks of old magic.

I smell it before we crest the final hill—that acrid tang of spells left to fester, of power accumulating in places it was never meant to stay. My squad smells it too. Bren makes a warding sign across his chest. Dorran spits into the dead grass. The others tighten their grips on their weapons and say nothing.

Six spell-burners at my back. Six veterans who’ve walked into cursed places and walked out again. None of them are eager to enter this one.

Smart.

The iron-wrought manor crouches against the horizon like a beast waiting to spring. Three stories of blackened stone and rusted iron framework, windows dark even with the morning sun blazing behind us. The gardens surrounding it died long ago—twisted trees reaching toward the sky with branches that bend in directions wind never blew them, flowerbeds reduced to patterns of bone-white stems that look almost deliberate. Almost intentional.

Warnings. Grave markers.

“Veillands magic,” Dorran mutters behind me. “The leakage is worse here than I’ve seen in years.”

I don’t respond. The leakage isn’t the problem. The leakage is a symptom—shadow bleeding through from wherever the ancient orcs tore the Veil three centuries past. Every orc carries that stain in our blood. Feared, desired, and damned for sins we didn’t commit.

But we commit others. Plenty of others.

The iron gates loom ahead. Ward-sigils etched deep into the metal, glowing faint in the sunlight. I feel them testing me as we approach—pushing at my skin, reading my purpose. The sensation is familiar. Uncomfortable. The wards are old, but they’re not passive. They’re actively watching.

My execution brand warms against my hip. It’s been warm since we entered the Veillands two days ago, responding to the ambient magic saturating this cursed territory. Now, this close to the Archive, the heat has intensified to the edge of pain.

Spell-burners learn to fight with it early. A brand that can end spells can end most things.

Good. Pain keeps you sharp.

“Hold here.” I raise a fist, and my squad stops. “I go in alone first.”

“Commander—“ Bren starts.

“That’s an order.” I don’t look back. “If I’m not out in two hours, burn everything. Start with the gates and work inward.”

Silence. Then Dorran’s rough voice: “Understood.”

I approach the gates. The ward-sigils flare as I reach for the iron—bright enough to cast shadows, hot enough to singe the hair on my forearms. Pain lances through my palms. I grip the bars anyway and push.

The gates scream as they open. Metal on metal, yes, but an undertone beneath. A voice.

Welcome, burner. We’ve been expecting you.