Page 83 of Orc’s Grimoire

I don’t flinch. Don’t defend myself. The marks on my body tell a story—six years of sacrifice, of feeding a hungry book to keep it from devouring minds. Midori sees contamination. I see survival.

“She’s my mate.” Korrath’s voice drops to a growl. The mating mark on his chest flares bright enough to see through his ruined shirt. “Claimed. Marked. If you burn her, you burn me.”

The words hit Midori like a physical blow. Her pale eyes widen, flick to his chest, see the glow of the mark blazing beneath torn fabric.

“No.” The word comes out strangled. “You can’t—the mating mark doesn’t appear after forty. It doesn’t appear for⁠—“

“For monsters?” I finish her sentence. “For keepers who feed abominations? For spell-burners who enjoy their work too much?” I let the question hang in the smoke-thick air. “The mark doesn’t care what we are. It cares what we choose.”

Midori’s face hardens. The brief moment of shock disappears, replaced by cold certainty.

“Then you’re both contaminated.” She raises her brands. “The magic has already twisted him. Warped his judgment. Made him think he feels for a woman who should be ash.” Her voice rises, carrying to the spell-burners behind her. “This is what forbidden magic does. This is why we burn everything—not just the books, but everyone they’ve touched. Because the contamination spreads. Because it takes good soldiers and turns them into traitors.”

The spell-burners shift. I can see uncertainty on some faces, conviction on others. They’ve followed Midori for years. Trusted her judgment. But Korrath was one of them, too—one of the Order’s best, a weapon they relied on.

And now she’s telling them to burn him.

“High Purger.” One of the spell-burners speaks—a young orc, barely past his growth marks. “Perhaps we should wait. Consult the Elders. If Blackbrand has truly been claimed⁠—“

“The claiming is the contamination.” Midori doesn’t take her eyes off Korrath. “The mating mark is magic. All magic is taint. We don’t make exceptions because the magic wears a pretty face or claims to be natural.” She advances another step. “I’m sorry, Korrath. I trained you better than this. I thought I’d made you understand.”

“You made me understand that dangerous magic needs to burn.” Korrath shifts his stance. Prepares for the attack he knows is coming. “You never taught me how to tell the difference between dangerous and different.”

“There is no difference.”

Midori attacks.

She’s fast—faster than I expected from a woman her age, faster than her injuries should allow. The execution brands sweep toward Korrath in a pattern designed to overwhelm, to burn, to end.

Korrath is faster.

He catches her first strike on his blade, deflects the second, ducks beneath the third. The metal screams as brand meets steel, sparks showering across the hillside grass.

“Stand down.” Korrath’s voice is strained. He’s not attacking—just defending, trying to create distance. “Midori, stop. I don’t want to⁠—“

“You don’t want to kill your teacher?” She presses the attack, brands weaving patterns of fire and death. “You don’t want to complete your fall? Too late, boy. You chose when you let the magic in. You chose when you let HER in.”

The spell-burners watch. None of them move to help either combatant. This is between Midori and Korrath—a reckoning that’s been building since the moment he delayed the purge.

I want to help. My body is hollow from the ritual, barely standing. But my knife is in my hand—there’s always a knife in my hand—and my blood still carries the grimoire’s traces. Not enough to fight. Barely enough to matter.

When Midori drives Korrath to one knee under a double-brand strike, I cut my palm and fling the blood at her face.

It doesn’t blind her. But she flinches, pulling back for half a heartbeat.

Half a heartbeat is all he needs.

They fight across the hillside, spell-burner against spell-burner. Midori has thirty years of experience, fanatical conviction, the certainty that comes from never questioning your purpose. Korrath has youth, strength, and a reason to survive that goes beyond duty.

He has me.

Their blades meet again and again, sending sparks scattering across the dawn-lit grass. Midori fights with the precision of someone who has dedicated her life to destruction—every move efficient, every strike designed to kill. But Korrath matches her blow for blow, his massive form moving with grace that seems impossible for his size.

I see the moment he uses the opening I gave him. The instant when defense shifts to offense, when holding back becomes striking to kill. Midori lunges with both brands; Korrath sidesteps, catches her extended arm, and drives his blade into her chest.

The sound is awful. Wet and final and wrong—the sound of steel punching through armor and flesh and bone. Midori’s eyes go wide. Her brands clatter to the grass, their heat fading instantly as her grip fails.

“Traitor.” She whispers the word, blood bubbling at her lips. “You’ve become… what we destroy…”