12. Korrath #2
“Midori.” I pace the gallery, unable to stand still.
“High Purger of the Order of Ash. Thirty years of service. She was my mentor, once.” I stop at the window, staring at the shadows pooling in the corridors below.
“She doesn’t negotiate. She doesn’t make exceptions.
And she’ll burn everything she thinks is contaminated. ”
“Including you.”
“Including me.”
We descend to the Restricted Stacks in silence.
The Archive feels different now—hostile in ways it wasn’t before.
Every shadow could hide an Inscribed servant.
Every whisper from chained books could be the Author’s voice, reaching out, testing our defenses.
The claiming sigil on Thyra’s collarbone glows faintly through her robe, pulsing in counterpoint to the mark on my chest.
Two bindings. Two claims. And somehow we have to survive them both.
The Stacks are quiet when we arrive. Too quiet. The grimoire waits on its central lectern, pages closed, chains slack around its cover. It looks dormant—but I’ve learned that appearances mean nothing where this book is concerned.
Thyra moves to one of the research alcoves, pulling down texts and scrolls with practiced efficiency. “If we’re going to face Midori and the Author, we need information. The grimoire’s original containment protocols. The Author’s weaknesses. Anything that might—“
“Keeper.”
The voice comes from the shadows. No hesitation in it, no pretense.
I spin, blade clearing its sheath before I’ve finished turning. Aldric, the senior cataloguer from the gallery, emerges from behind a row of shelving. No hands raised this time.
His posture is certain, unhurried, the script behind his eyes bright and steady.
“The Author sends his terms.” His voice is calm. Practiced. “You have until—“
I move before he finishes.
My blade takes him through the throat.
Blood sprays across the ancient texts. Aldric makes a sound that’s half gurgle, half gasp, and crumples to the floor. Script flickers behind his dying eyes, words crawling faster as if trying to escape, then slowing, dimming, going still.
“Korrath.” Thyra’s voice is sharp. “He was going to tell us the terms.”
“Whatever terms the Author wanted to deliver, they weren’t worth hearing.” I pull my blade free, wipe it clean on my thigh.
She crouches beside the body, studying the slack face, the empty eyes. The script has faded now—whatever animated it dying with its host. But traces remain. Faint lines of text visible just beneath the surface of his pupils, like words written on water.
“Aldric.” Her voice is hollow. “He’s worked here for fifteen years. I’ve shared meals with him. Complained about the grimoire’s demands. He never—“
“He was already dead.” I force the words out, hating the necessity. “The man you knew died when he let the Author edit him. What remained was just a tool.”
“You can’t know that—“
“I’ve destroyed enough twisted magic to recognize the signs.” I meet her eyes across the corpse of her colleague. “The shimmer. The calm. He wasn’t coming with any message worth hearing, Thyra. He was a weapon. Pointed at you.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend him. Just stares at the body with an expression I can’t read—grief, maybe. Or calculation. Or the cold pragmatism that’s kept her alive for six years in a place that eats keepers.
“How many more?” Her voice drops. “How many more are hiding in my Archive?”
“The Elder said seventeen revealed themselves. More could be waiting.” I sheathe my blade, the metal warm from fresh blood. “Anyone you’ve trusted. Anyone with access to the grimoire. Anyone who’s had prolonged exposure to the Author’s influence.”
“That’s everyone.” She rises, her movements stiff. “That’s literally everyone who works here.”
“Then everyone is suspect.”
She stands in the Restricted Stacks, surrounded by chained books and fresh blood, and I realize I’ve never seen her look so lost.
She needs—
I don’t finish the thought. Just close the distance between us.
She doesn’t flinch when I reach for her. Doesn’t step back. Her eyes track my movement, dark and wary, but she holds her ground as my hands find her shoulders, her arms, the tense line of her spine.
“Korrath.” My name on her lips sounds different. Softer. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.” The word comes out rougher than intended. “Making sure you’re still here. Still you.”
“And if I’m not?” Her chin lifts, defiance flickering beneath the exhaustion. “If the Author’s already edited me? If everything I’ve done for six years has just been serving his purpose?”
“Then we burn him anyway.” I let my hands slide up to cup her face, tilting her gaze to meet mine. “And we figure out the rest later.”
The mating mark pulses between us—not painful, but intense. Present. I feel her pulse beneath my palms, her breath warm against my wrists. The scent of ink and blood that clings to her skin fills my lungs, and beneath it, her own scent. Warm. Female. Mine.
The mark says she’s yours. The magic doesn’t lie.
“Midori arrives at dawn.” My voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. “She’ll burn everything. Everyone. Including you, including me if she learns about the mark.”
“I know.”
“We have to deal with the Author before she gets here. Find a way to destroy him, to end this, before the Order tears through the Archive with fire and iron.”
“I know.” Her hands rise to cover mine, pressing my palms harder against her cheeks. The contact grounds me—solid, real, inescapably present. “And the grimoire? What do we do about the grimoire?”
“It burns too.” The words scrape against my throat. “After we use it to destroy its creator.”
“Can we trust it? After everything—“
“No.” I don’t soften the truth. “We can’t trust it. But we might be able to use it.”
The grimoire’s voice fills our minds.
Not sound—impression. Words that arrive without traveling through ears, settling directly into thought with the intimate violation of uninvited guests.
The book on the lectern hasn’t moved, hasn’t opened, but its presence expands until it’s everywhere, filling the Stacks with borrowed consciousness.
“You want to destroy the Author.” Not a question. The grimoire already knows. “You want to end him permanently. Burn him from existence the way you’ve burned so many of my siblings.”
I release Thyra’s face, turning to face the lectern. The chains holding the grimoire have gone slack—not broken, but surrendered, as if they’ve given up trying to contain what they never truly held.
“You can hear us?”
“I can hear everything that happens in my domain, spell-burner.” The grimoire’s voice carries amusement, spite, centuries of accumulated resentment. “I’ve heard every secret whispered in these halls. Felt every drop of blood spilled on my pages. Known every thought that brushed against my binding.”
“Including the Author’s?”