Page 78 of Orc’s Grimoire

The flames close in.

And everything goes dark.

TWENTY-FOUR

KORRATH

Thyra lies in my arms like a broken thing.

Her skin is cold. Too cold. The blood that pours from her wounds has slowed to a trickle—not because the bleeding has stopped, but because there’s almost nothing left to bleed. Her eyes are open but unfocused, staring at a point beyond my sight, her lips moving in silent conversation with voices I can’t hear.

The throne room burns around us. Sections of ceiling collapse in showers of flame and ash. The embedded faces in the walls scream their final agonies as the parchment-flesh melts. And through it all, Thyra just… lies there. Still. Silent. Slipping away.

She’s dying. She’s dying, and she did it to save me, and if I don’t finish what she started, her death will mean nothing.

I lay her down gently. Press my lips against her blood-crusted forehead. The mating mark burns on my chest—hot and insistent, pulsing with her nearness even as she fades.

“Hold on.” My voice is rough. Broken. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Then I turn to face the Author.

He’s pathetic.

The entity that bent reality to his will, that dissolved into information, that controlled the Codex with a thought—he’s nothing now. Just a man made of parchment-skin and ink-blood, staggering on legs that don’t remember how to work. His robes hang loose on a body that’s still learning how to be solid. His hands shake as he raises them in defense.

“No.” His voice is weak. Human. Terrified. “You can’t—I’ve survived for centuries⁠—“

“Not anymore.”

I cross the distance between us in three strides. The blade in my hand isn’t mine—I lost mine to the ink-abyss—but I found another in the chaos, torn from the grip of a dying construct. It’s enough. For this, anything is enough.

The Author stumbles backward. “Wait—we can negotiate—I can give you knowledge, power, anything you⁠—“

“You took her blood.” I advance another step. “You fed on her. You tried to rewrite her mind. You tried to make her yours.”

“She chose to feed me! She was my keeper, my⁠—“

“She chose to contain you.” Another step. “She chose to sacrifice everything to keep you from spreading. And when you threatened her—when you threatened us—she gave even more.”

The Author’s back hits the throne. He has nowhere left to run. The chair of chained grimoires looms behind him, its stolen books straining against their shackles, sensing their captor’s vulnerability.

“Please.” The word comes out broken, desperate. “I don’t want to die. I’ve worked so hard to avoid⁠—“

“Everyone dies.” I raise my blade. “You just took longer than most.”

I drive the blade through his chest.

The parchment-skin tears like old paper. The ink-blood sprays black across my hands, my face, my blade. The Author gasps—a wet, mortal sound—and his hands wrap around the steel buried in his heart.

“No.” He stares at the blade in disbelief. “This isn’t—I can’t⁠—“

I pull the execution brand from my belt.

The metal is warm. It’s been warm for twenty years, since the day I first learned what I was for. But I’ve never felt it burn as hot as it does now, pressed against the Author’s parchment-flesh, ready to end what should have ended centuries ago.

“But I’ve never burned anything as much as I want to burn you.”

I ignite the brand.