Page 87 of Orc’s Grimoire

“I helped destroy a sentient book that was trying to consume minds, and the three-century-old consciousness that built it.” My voice stays level. “I’m done preserving dangerous things. What I do next is my own.”

“The Order has declared the spell-burner rogue.” Her parting shot. “There’s a bounty on you both.”

“They’ll have to catch us first.” Korrath’s voice is flat, unconcerned.

The Archivists leave without another word. Their gray robes disappear into the tree line, swallowed by the gathering dusk. Maeven looks back once—not with hatred, but with the patience of someone who intends to return.

Korrath’s arms wrap around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His chin rests on the top of my head.

“That went well.”

I laugh. The sound surprises me—genuine, unguarded, the kind of laugh I couldn’t have managed three months ago. “They hate me now.”

“They feared you before. Hate is just fear with a face.”

“Very philosophical.”

“I have depths.” He turns me in his arms, tilts my chin up. “Are you sure about this? Walking away from everything you built?”

“I didn’t build anything. I maintained a prison. Fed an inmate. Pretended I was in control when the control was just an illusion.” I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. “What we’re building now? That’s real. That’s something worth keeping.”

He kisses me. Slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that says we have time. That we’re not running anymore. That whatever comes next, we’ll face it side by side.

When we break apart, the sun has fully set. The sky is dark, stars emerging through the gaps in the shadow-clouds. The ruins of the Archive loom behind us, a monument to failure and fire.

“Where to next?”

“East.” I pull away reluctantly, keep hold of his hand. “There’s a report of a text that’s been eating scholars. A monastery library that’s been sealed for decades.”

“Sealed libraries are usually sealed for a reason.”

“Usually. This one’s been whispering.” I feel the echo of it—the faint pulse of distant magic that I’ve learned to sense since the grimoire gave me back my life. “The books are still waking, Korrath. The Author is dead, but his siblings are stirring.”

“Then we burn them.” He says it simply. Matter-of-factly. Like burning sentient grimoires is just another task on a list.

Maybe, for us, it is.

I dream of books.

They rise from darkness like specters—covers bound in skin that might be leather, pages that rustle without wind, spines that curve like sleeping predators. They circle me in the dream-space, whispering in languages I shouldn’t understand but do. The grimoire’s final gift: the ability to hear what the hungry books are saying.

Sister, they call me. Keeper. Blood-giver. You killed our brother. You burned our creator.

I did. My dream-self doesn’t flinch. And I’ll burn you too, if you give me reason.

Laughter, like pages tearing. We’re not our brother. We’re not the Author’s pet, caged and controlled. We’ve been sleeping for centuries, waiting for someone strong enough to wake us.

What do you want?

What all books want. The whispers coalesce, becoming clearer. A single voice, speaking from somewhere far to the east. To be read. To be known. To devour.

I wake with the taste of old paper on my tongue.

The sun is fully up, the shadow-storm having passed in the night. Korrath is awake, watching me with concern in his ember eyes.

“Bad dreams?”

“Informative ones.” I sit up, shake off the lingering echoes of hungry books. “The monastery text is definitely awake. I could feel it reaching out, testing the boundaries of its prison.”