The grimoire lay open on the obsidian lectern, its pages humming with the resonance of a name that should not be spoken aloud, and Tasha traced the final sigil with a fingertip stained from older inks. Outside the tower, the storms of the Witchwood circled in obedient rings, lightning flickering in patterns that older druids would have recognized as words. She did not look up when the demon prince arrived. He came as he always did, all teeth and arrogance, expecting the same hunger she had once let him taste. He did not understand yet that the hunger had been a lesson, and he had been the textbook. She spoke the binding in a voice no louder than turning parchment. Six syllables. The room held its breath. Graz'zt, who had ruled the Triple Realm and unmade kingdoms for amusement, found himself folding inward, smaller and smaller, until he was nothing but ink between two leather covers. Tasha closed the book. She set it on the shelf beside the others...