The Coward’s Grimoire

The book insulted him before he realised it could talk.

“Ah. Dirt road. Again,” it muttered from inside his pack. “Bold choice, Boots. Nothing says destiny like ankle-deep mud and a quick escape route.”

Edrin stopped.

Mist clung to the hills like breath held too long. A crow startled off a fence post. For a heartbeat, Edrin wondered if exhaustion had finally tipped him into hallucination.

He reached back and pulled the book free.

Edrin did not look like the sort of wizard stories remembered. He was thin rather than imposing, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if he’d learned early how to take up less space. His hair—a dull brown always falling into his eyes—looked like it had been cut by impatience rather than care. His cloak was sun-faded and patched in three different shades of green, the repairs careful but obvious. A plain wooden wand hung at his belt, uncarved and unadorned, chosen for reliability rather than flair.

And his boots—scuffed, over-worn, always angled toward the road ahead—had carried him far more often away from danger than toward it.

The book was heavy, leather-bound, its cover cracked with age. No title. No sigil. Only a faintly embossed eye at the centre, half-lidded and deeply unimpressed.

“I don’t like dirt roads,” it said. “They lead to villages. Villages lead to expectations. And expectations, as you’ve demonstrated with admirable consistency, lead to running.”

Edrin stared.

“…Did you just talk?”

“Oh, good,” the book replied. “It hears me. I was worried you were stupid in addition to timid.”

Edrin dropped it.

It hit the ground with a solid thud, bounced once, and landed face-up in the dirt.

“Lovely,” it said. “Very graceful. Really inspires confidence in your mystical prowess.”

Edrin backed away until his calves struck a stone. His heart pounded hard enough to rattle his ribs.

Books did not talk. He knew this. He’d spent six years apprenticed to a tower wizard, copying spellwork until his fingers cramped, surrounded by shelves of tomes. None of them had ever mocked him.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he whispered.

“Oh, that’s obvious,” the book said. “It’s practically your defining trait.”

Edrin turned and ran.

He made it ten steps.

The book landed in front of him with a soft thump. He skidded to a stop, nearly tripping over his own boots.

“How—” he began.

“You dropped me,” the book said. “Which was rude. Also pointless. I don’t do abandonment. Tried that once. Didn’t stick.”

Edrin bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Please. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one ever does. Yet here we are. You: a wandering wizard with functional magic and paralysing fear. Me: a grimoire of considerable importance stuck hitchhiking through the countryside.”

“You’re… a grimoire?”

“Yes.”

“And you talk.”

“Regrettably.”

“And you called me—”

“Boots,” the book said. “Because you’re always halfway out of them.”

Something tight and familiar twisted in Edrin’s chest.

The book’s cover creaked. “Relax. I’m not insulting you for fun.”

“You called me a coward.”

“I called you accurate.”

Hands shaking, Edrin picked up the book and shoved it back into his pack. “I’m going to pretend this isn’t happening.”

“That’s your second favourite strategy,” the book said. “Running still holds first.”

He made camp early.

The fire was small, carefully controlled. Big flames drew attention. And attention led to expectations.

He ate cold bread and cheese, staring into the flicker of flame, listening to the louder silence from his pack.

Eventually, the book spoke.

“You know,” it said, “most wizards would have opened me by now.”

“I don’t want to,” Edrin said.

“Of course you don’t.”

“I don’t know what you are.”

“A book,” it said patiently. “With spells. History. Wisdom. And opinions.”

“You insult people.”

“Only the ones with potential,” the book replied. “Otherwise it’s a waste of effort.”

Edrin swallowed. “I’m not a hero.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” the book said. “Heroes are insufferable. All speeches and sacrifices. No. You’re something else.”

“What?”

“A disappointment,” the book said cheerfully. “But an interesting one.”

Edrin stood and shouldered his pack. “I’m leaving.”

“Again.”

He walked until his legs ached and stars wheeled overhead. The road sloped down toward a scatter of lantern lights.

A village.

He slowed.

The book shifted in his pack. “Ah. There it is. The tightening chest. The sudden fascination with alternate routes. Woods looking very inviting tonight?”

“I can help,” Edrin muttered. “I just don’t want to get involved.”

“An impressive philosophy,” the book said. “Very safe. Very empty.”

A scream tore through the night.

Sharp. Panicked. Human.

Edrin froze.

Another scream followed, closer now—a woman’s voice, thick with terror.

Run, his mind urged. Like it always did.

The book went quiet.

Then, softly, “If you walk away now, I’ll never insult you again.”

Edrin swallowed. “What?”

“I mean it. You can go. I’ll stay silent. No commentary. No judgment.”

The lantern lights flickered below.

Another scream.

“I’m scared,” Edrin whispered.

“I know,” the book said. Its voice had lost its edge. “But fear isn’t your problem.”

“Then what is?”

“You listen to it like it’s the only truth.”

Before the book, he’d already be miles away.

Instead, Edrin turned toward the village.

The book hummed, low and satisfied. “About time, Boots.”

The village was too small for guards. Too small for heroes.

Something hunched in the square—jagged limbs, slick shadow. A marsh-wight, dragged up from the lowlands by hunger or mistake.

It lunged.

Edrin stumbled back, raising his hands. Magic sparked wildly, his fear scrambling focus.

“Page thirty-seven,” the book snapped. “Bind, not blast. You don’t have the reserves for dramatic nonsense.”

“I don’t know that spell!”

“You copied it for weeks,” the book said. “You cried over the sigils.”

Edrin remembered. Ink-stained fingers. Sleepless nights. Quiet shame.

He steadied his hands. Spoke the words.

The air snapped taut. Invisible bands clamped down around the creature, dragging it to the earth. It shrieked, thrashing.

Edrin’s knees buckled.

“Hold,” the book urged, quieter now. “Just hold.”

He did.

The spell collapsed inward. The wight dissolved into muck and steam.

Silence fell.

Villagers stared from behind doors and fences.

A woman knelt beside a child, whispering thanks through tears.

Edrin sank to his knees, breath breaking into shaky laughter.

“I didn’t run,” he said.

“No,” the book replied. “You didn’t.”

A boy stepped closer, wide-eyed. “Are you a real wizard?”

Edrin hesitated, then straightened.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

The book snorted. “Let’s not get carried away.”

They gave him a place to sleep that night. A soft bed. A warm room. Bread left out beside the hearth.

Edrin lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the book resting beside him.

“Why me?” he asked.

The book was silent for a long time.

“Because you’re afraid,” it said finally. “And you keep walking anyway, even when it hurts. Even when you fail, that’s rarer than bravery.”

Edrin smiled, small but real.

“So you’re proud of me?”

“Don’t push it,” the book said. But its tone was warmer now. Almost fond.

Morning came.

The road stretched on—wide, uncertain.

Edrin adjusted his pack. Took a breath. Took a step.

The book stayed with him.

For once, it didn’t complain.

And neither did he.