The Dickhead Grimoire Chronicles

Turning eighteen is supposed to mean freedom. You can vote, drink (depending on the kingdom), and finally tell your parents to shove it. Instead, you’re standing in Ashveil’s Grand Library, where grimoires float around like vultures at a buffet. Most eighteen‑year‑olds get noble tomes that glow with wisdom and promise greatness. You? You get the literary equivalent of a bad tattoo.