Eiden remained seated on the floor long after the others had gone to bed, the quiet of the mansion settling around him like a soft veil. His Infinite Grimoire lay unclipped from his waist, opened across the polished floorboards. Its pages glowed faintly, shifting like living parchment.
He extended his palm.
A slow breath left him as he focused on a creation‑magic spell. A moment later, the tip of his finger lit with a concentrated blue glow.
He tapped the open Infinite Grimoire.
The reaction was immediate.
Threads of luminous script burst from the page, spreading across the floor like living strands of silk. They slithered outward, weaving between the scattered grimoires, latching onto each one with gentle but absolute force.
Then—
SHHHHHHHHH—
The strands pulled.
One by one, the grimoires dissolved into streams of light and were absorbed into the Infinite Grimoire. Its pages flipped rapidly, expanding, multiplying, growing in number—but the book itself never increased in size. It remained the same compact, black tome, swallowing entire libraries without changing its weight.
When the last grimoire vanished, the room fell silent.
Then—
thump.
A single book fell from a small remaining stack.
A grey grimoire.
No cover. No sigils. No title. Just a blank, colorless shell.
Eiden knew exactly what it was. His spell had been crafted to gather every grimoire except the one he sought.
The Grimoire of Divinark.
He extended a hand and opened it. Inside was a single page. A single sentence.
But the letters were wrong.
They weren't English. They weren't backwards English. They weren't even letters he recognized. They were scrambled, distorted, and arranged in a way that defied normal reading—a cipher of twisted symbols that only resembled a language.
The page read:
"Vra'dimor Efl Ganikro."
The shapes were sharp, angular, almost carved. The spacing was wrong. The accents were unnatural. The flow was alien.
But Eiden recognized the pattern. It was "Grimoire of Divinark"... scrambled into an unknown language.
He inhaled slowly, then tried to sound it out:
"Vra… dimor… efl… ganikro…?"
The moment the final syllable left his mouth, his entire body lurched.
A strange sensation washed over him—weightless, disorienting, as if the world had been peeled away. He blinked, and the ceiling above him was no longer wood and stone. It was stars. A swirling expanse of purple nebulae, galaxies spiraling in slow motion, cosmic light drifting like dust.
He closed his eyes. Opened them again.
He was back in the living room. The Grimoire of Divinark rested in his hands.
Eiden lifted it and held it over the Infinite Grimoire. The grey book dissolved into light, and a new page manifested at the very beginning of the Infinite Grimoire—not the end.
The first page.
The same scrambled word appeared: "Vra'dimor Efl Ganikro."
Then, slowly, new words began to form beneath it—letters carving themselves into existence:
"Think of anything."
"Turn thought into reality."
Eiden stared at the page, then glanced at Gavron, who still leaned gently against him, half asleep, wings curled protectively around them both.
He thought of Iris. Of Dravien. Of Selyndra. Of all eight of them.
He wanted them safe. Protected. Untouchable.
He wanted to defeat Civilar—but not through cheap power, not through unfair advantage. He wanted to win rightly, with his own strength, his own resolve.
But the thoughts tangled in his mind, refusing to settle.
He exhaled and rested his eyes. Sleep came quietly.
Morning arrived.
Eiden woke in the massive bed, sunlight spilling across the sheets. Selyndra's head rested against his chest, her golden hair draped over him like a warm blanket. He wore only white pants now, his upper body bare. The others were gathered around him in the bed as well—the men shirtless in white pants, the women in simple white nightgowns, all resting peacefully.
He inhaled slowly.
He had one step left. One final task to guarantee the safety of the people he loved. One final act to ensure this world would know peace—true, eternal peace.