7. Paper Cuts
PAPER CUTS
TALIA
The durative suffix is easy to overlook, but ‘ammentella’ does not mean ‘to take.’ It means ‘to keep drawing, continuously,’ presumably from a source with ample supply.
Talia hadn’t told Riven about the flux shop, and she didn’t plan to. It was over, she’d survived, and she’d prefer to move on.
While she was out shopping, Riven had found them new rooms at a place called the Flux he steered her clear of puddles where dust had gelled into mud and gave a wide berth to a wagon with a sagging wheel.
By the time they reached the Consortium office, the city was fully awake.
Talia squared her shoulders and pushed inside. This is it. A wide desk fronted the room, and the clerk looked up when the door opened.
“I know I’m early.” She couldn’t hold back her grin. “My name is Talent Salaren. I’m here for the research fellowship.”
“Salaren.” The clerk repeated her name in a strange way, like he was trying to figure out where he’d heard it. She almost cut in to explain who her grandmother was when he continued, “Yes, your luggage arrived yesterday. I’m Webb. I can show you down.”
He led her down a switchback staircase into a narrow basement. The space was cramped and cool. A handful of desks sagged under stacks of books and papers, illuminated by wavering flux lamps and a strip of thin windows near the ceiling. Her valises were stacked in the corner.
A massive map covered one wall—Sovana rendered in familiar detail, while across the Green Sea, Valta was only a jagged coastline and a big patch of white. Someone needed to fill in that space. She could do it; she was sure of it.
She set her satchel down on the first open desk and waited for Webb to leave before she sat and pulled out her notebook. She’d spent hours outlining the theory she’d drawn from Vael’s journal. She wanted to be able to explain it without looking at her notes.
Flux is a consumable resource, scarce and dwindling in Sovana. However, early sources (see: Vael’s journal) suggest a different way of drawing on flux was once prevalent. He describes cities, transit, domestic tools, all sustained by flux with no indication of scarcity.
The language itself diverges from modern terminology.
There is no mention of flux extraction in Starscript; no mining, no refining.
Instead, flux is consistently associated with ammentaa (to draw from, as one draws water from a well).
In nearly every instance the verb appears with the durative suffix -ella: ammentella (to channel), suggesting an ongoing process.
Throughout Vael’s journal, flux is framed as a sustainable system—more akin to tending crops than burning fuel.
If this was achieved through technology, it was pervasive enough to shape the language around it.
Evidence would likely present itself in cities or ruins of sufficient age (approx. 400 to 600 years).
This was why she’d kept Vael’s journal, despite the risk of being caught with it.
If self-sustaining flux was possible, and if she could figure out how it had worked, it would change the world.
The rebellion in Vaelis was growing; blood was being spilled in the streets over flux rationing.
Vael’s journal hinted at an answer, but she needed access to fae ruins to decode it.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and she flipped her notebook closed. Two men filed in.
“You’re the Salaren girl,” the taller one said.
A round-faced man pushed past him. “Wait, Talent Salaren? I’ve read all your essays! The way you traced Starscript verb evolution from—”
“Later, Peat,” the tall one snapped. He looked at Talia. “That’s my desk.”
He cocked his head, expecting her to move. Talia’s jaw tightened. She’d gotten here first. But her grandmother’s voice whispered in her head: Don’t make a scene on your first day.
She gathered her notebook and stood. No, of course I don’t mind, don’t mention it, my work isn’t going to change the world or anything, she thought bitterly as she stepped aside.
Peat smiled apologetically, wringing his hands. “Sorry about Nadir. He’s not at his best in the morning. You can work here.”
He showed her to a desk shoved beneath a sputtering flux lamp. His cheeks flushed pink as he moved papers off the chair.
“It’s fine.” Talia forced a smile. “I’ve worked with difficult scholars before.”
Peat brightened. “I really did enjoy the one where you cross-referenced faerie stories and religious texts—”
“Peat!” Nadir barked from across the room. “Leave her alone.”
Peat’s face fell, and he shuffled quickly back to his own desk.
Talia wanted to call after him, tell him she didn’t mind.
But the words stuck. She never knew how to do this part—making friends, the easy back-and-forth of small talk.
So she took her new seat, opened her notebook, and pretended to read.
Some time passed before she heard another set of feet on the stairs. An older man emerged. He wore a trim gray suit, and he walked directly to Talia’s desk.
“Miss Salaren?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “I am Emmer Hendricks, the chief researcher here at the Independent Scholars Consortium. I am well acquainted with your grandmother, the esteemed Marionette Salaren.”
He ducked his head at her grandmother’s name like a nervous pigeon. Talia wanted to laugh, but she kept her face flat.
“It’s an honor to be here,” she said, keeping her voice low and level. “I’m looking forward to advancing my research into Starscript sigils and—”
“Now about that. This is not that kind of fellowship. That is, we will have to see about the research topics.”
“I see.” Talia didn’t understand what that meant, but she knew well enough not to challenge an authority figure in his own office. “Well, I’m here. Where should I start?”
Emmer frowned and waved Peat over. He came with a stack of expedition logs. “These need to be copied for the archives in Haven,” Emmer said brusquely before stalking away to a large desk in the corner.
Was this what not that kind of fellowship meant? Was she a notetaker? Talia glanced at her notebook full of hypotheses, work she could complete only by studying real relics in the field. She’d get there. She dipped her pen and got started.
The first reports seemed routine—supply lists, relic catalogs. Many sections were redacted. There weren’t many words; she copied them quickly. The dates were recent, within the past few months, which was encouraging. Expeditions must be going out regularly.
She flipped to a section with no redactions and stopped.
Site Fourteen: Excavation suspended after full crew loss. Equipment recovered, heavily damaged.
She stared. Read it again. Flipped ahead.
Team Seven: No contact for three weeks, presumed lost.
Her hands moved through the stack. There were more. Whole expeditions gone. Crews torn apart by “aggressive local fauna.”
She approached Emmer’s desk with one of the logs. “These reports, the casualties. They seem extreme.”
“You were asked to transcribe, not analyze.” He didn’t look up. “These are sensitive reports. Can I trust you to keep that in mind?”
“Don’t you think it’s worth discussing?”
“Not with you.”
Her hands curled into fists. She wanted to tell him she was the preeminent Starscript scholar in the whole world, that she’d translated texts he couldn’t even read, that she’d been awarded a research fellowship here, not a secretary position.
Instead, she went back to her desk and bent her head over the pages.
She worked in silence for the rest of the day, copying records until her hand cramped.
When the light from the windows started to dim, Emmer stood and walked out without a word.
Nadir followed. At least Peat gave her an apologetic wave.
She waited until they were gone to trudge up the stairs.
The lock clicked behind her as she stepped out onto the street, where Riven waited, leaning against the building.
She had assumed he’d be gone, but after a day so full of disappointments, it was nice to see him.
She wondered what he’d done while she was inside. Did he have friends in Gateway? Family?
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Fine,” she lied. Always fine.
The Flux & Fiddle was quiet that evening.
They passed through the saloon, nodding to Velvet—the outspoken owner who also tended the bar—and climbed the back stairs to a narrow hallway with a half dozen rooms. Talia’s was just at the top of the stairs, and Riven was closer to the shared washroom at the far end.
When they reached her door, she mumbled good night and slipped inside, locking it behind her. Then she pulled out the expedition report. The one she’d slipped into her satchel when Emmer wasn’t looking. Her pulse hammered as she opened her notebook to a fresh page.
She began to copy. Every word. Every detail about the crew that had vanished. If there were patterns, she’d find them. For the first time all day, she felt like herself again.
Dangerous curiosity. That’s what her grandmother had called it. Talia had never thought of herself as dangerous before, but maybe her grandmother knew her better than she thought.