Page 75 of Orc’s Grimoire

The answer comes in concepts, not words. Images pressed into my mind with brutal clarity.

The Author chose to become intangible. He wrote himself out of physical existence, made himself immune to weapons and fire and all the ways flesh can be destroyed. But that choice was exactly that—a choice. The grimoire can force him to choose differently. Can drag him back into a body, anchor him to flesh, make him solid enough to kill.

BUT IT WILL COST YOU.

Cost me what?

EVERYTHING.

I feel the grimoire’s meaning settle into my bones. All my blood. All my power. Everything I’ve built over years of careful sacrifice, poured into a single act of forced manifestation. The grimoire will use me as a conduit—channel the Author’s consciousness through my blood until it solidifies into flesh.

I might not survive.

Actually, I probably won’t survive.

THE SPELL-BURNER CAN KILL THE AUTHOR IF I MAKE HIM SOLID. BUT YOU HAVE TO GIVE ME EVERYTHING. ALL YOUR BLOOD. ALL YOUR POWER. YOUR LIFE, IF NECESSARY.

Korrath’s arms tighten around me. He can’t hear the grimoire’s voice, but he can see my face. Can see the decision forming behind my eyes.

“Whatever it’s telling you—“ His voice is rough, desperate. “Don’t. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.” I meet his gaze. His ember eyes burn with fear—not for himself, but for me. The spell-burner who has destroyed more relics than he can count, killed innocents as acceptable collateral, built his entire identity around destruction—he’s terrified of losing one woman. “You know there isn’t.”

“Then we find one. We retreat, regroup⁠—“

“The grimoire is burning. We’re inside it. There’s no retreat, no regrouping. There’s only now.”

Another section of ceiling collapses. Fire roars through the gap, close enough to feel its heat. The Author’s form flickers more violently, his existence becoming tenuous.

“Thyra.” Korrath’s hands cup my face. His thumbs trace the blood on my cheeks, gentle despite their scarred roughness. “I didn’t claim you to watch you die.”

“You didn’t claim me to watch me run, either.” I turn my head, press my lips against his palm. Taste my own blood on his skin.

“I knew you were pragmatic. Cold. Calculating.” His forehead presses against mine. His breath is ragged against my lips. “I didn’t know you were suicidal.”

“I’m not. I’m just…” I search for the right word. “Willing.”

The Author’s voice cuts through our moment.

“How touching.” He floats closer, his transparent form flickering with malicious amusement despite his deteriorating state. “The keeper and her monster, sharing final words as the world burns. Do you truly believe you can stop me? I’ve survived for centuries. I’ll survive this.”

“Maybe.” I pull back from Korrath. Not far—just enough to meet the Author’s script-filled eyes. “But I’ve survived six years of feeding your creation. That has to count for something.”

“You’ve survived as my keeper. My anchor. My food source.” The Author’s smile is cruel. “Without the grimoire, you’re nothing. A scholar who bleeds pretty. A calculator wrapped in soft skin.”

“That’s what everyone thinks.” I raise my blood-soaked hands. “That’s what I let everyone think. But I didn’t survive this long by being soft. I survived by being patient. By learning. By paying attention to everything the grimoire showed me.”

The Author’s smile wavers.

“And what did it show you?”

“That you’re afraid.” I step toward him, blood streaming from every wound. “You’ve been afraid for centuries. Afraid of dying. Afraid of being forgotten. Afraid of what happens when your precious knowledge burns and there’s nothing left to prove you ever existed.”

“I’m not⁠—“

“You wrote yourself into these pages because you couldn’t bear to end.” Another step. The mating mark blazes on my collarbone. “You became information because flesh was too fragile. You’ve been hiding in these pages like a coward, editing minds because you can’t face the world without absolute control.”

The Author’s form flickers violently. “You don’t know⁠—“