No Going Back
Holloway was exactly on time, like always.
Talia’s heart fluttered. Three years since they’d done one of these—careful meetings in neutral places where they could pretend they were still the people they’d been.
The café off Scholar’s Row was buzzing with fluxlight and conversation, its brass service rails polished to a mirror shine. Talia had claimed the back corner, a pot of thavi steaming between empty cups.
He looked her over and smiled faintly. “That’s a different look for you.”
She shrugged. “Easier to paint my nails black than scrub out the ink.”
His enforcer’s uniform—black wool, brass buttons, green cloak—suited him. He’d shaved the sides of his head, trimmed his curls. Sat straight, looked her in the eye. But when he grinned, his dimples hadn’t changed. For a moment, she almost believed they could go back.
They spoke about safe things. The weather. Her teaching. His work at the docks.
“Still on smuggler duty?” she asked, keeping her voice light. As if it were a game. As if the people he arrested didn’t hang.
“It’s relentless.” He poured thavi for her first, then himself. “We caught a merchant last month trading in illegal relics.” His hand stilled on the pot. “They executed him three days later.”
He sighed and shook his head, as if he could shake off the memory.
“I’m sorry that happened,” she said quietly.
“He kept saying he didn’t know they were illegal.” He set the pot down carefully and paused. The silence between them felt off. “But that’s grim. I’d rather talk about you.”
The way he said you made her chest ache.
“I’ve been working on something incredible,” she said, grateful for the change in subject. “Liturgical Starscript. I’m calling it that because it looks just like the script in early religious texts. But these were tattoos. Used to seal an oath between fae rulers and their guards.”
His expression shifted, and something closed behind his eyes.
“I’ve been reading your essays,” he said carefully. “Don’t you think it’s a bit risky to draw comparisons between faerie stories and the gods?”
“I have dated artifacts showing very strong parallels across the locations and timelines. The evidence is solid.”
“Strange. The relics trade is highly regulated. I haven’t seen many pieces that old come through academic channels.”
His tone shifted, like a pressure change before bad weather rolled in. All the warmth had gone out of it.
“Well, the Lyceum has…” She trailed off at the look he gave her.
He leaned forward. “Tally. Where are you getting these artifacts?” The question came out clipped, professional.
She should have deflected or changed the subject or laughed it off. But this was Holloway. They didn’t lie to each other.
“Does it matter?” She didn’t break eye contact. “The research is legitimate.”
“Does it matter? Tally, it’s the law.”
“It’s not like I’m running off and joining the rebellion.” Her pulse thrummed. This conversation wasn’t dangerous, was it? This was her friend. “I’m a scholar, a successful one. I want the truth, not some sanitized version of history.”
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, twice. Their old signal.
I’m here. You’re not alone.
But his next words shattered it.
“If you keep this up, you’ll be arrested. And if that happens, I don’t know if I can protect you.”
“I’m not asking for your permission or your protection.” She heard how cold she sounded, how much like her grandmother. “This is my life’s work. I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Something closed down behind his eyes.
“The people I arrest, they aren’t bad people,” he said. “It’s not enough to save them.”
They sat in silence, thavi cooling between them.
“When did this happen?” he asked finally.
She wanted to ask him the same thing. When had he chosen to side with the people who burned books? When had duty replaced wonder? It was tragic.
“Maybe we’ve both changed,” she said.
He stood, dropped coins on the table, too many, like he was paying for more than thavi.
At the door, he turned back. “If I find out you’re involved in something illegal, I’ll have to call it in. You understand that?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re going to do it anyway.”
He was looking at her like she was already gone. Like he was memorizing her face.
“Goodbye, Talent.”
Not Tally. Not see you next time. The door closed. The bell chimed.
She sat alone in the bright café. Conversation swirled around her. A couple near the door eyed her table, but she ignored them and sipped her cold thavi.
In the stories, this would be the moment the girl changed her mind. Ran into the street. Chose love over ambition. But Talia had never been one to chase the happy ending. She’d wait until it came to her.
It was raining on the walk back, but Talia didn’t bother with a coat. She liked the feel of cold rain on her skin, found it grounding.
Wren was waiting outside her office. She’d grown so used to his visits; she’d stopped wondering how he got into the Lyceum. This time she panicked, pulled him inside, and checked the hall.
“You shouldn’t be here. They’re cracking down—”
“I know. Been dodging patrols all week.” He shrugged out of his coat. “But this was worth it.”
He pulled a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth from out of his coat.
“Oldest book I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Found it in a vault, right here in Vaelis. Been sealed up for centuries.”
Her hands trembled as she untied the string. Inside lay a narrow journal bound in leather. Simple and unmarked but cracked with age.
Warmth flooded through her fingertips as soon as she touched it. She opened the first page. The script was familiar—she’d read religious texts in this hand. But seeing it here, in a personal journal, made her breath catch.
“What is it?” Wren asked.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t stop flipping pages.
This was written in liturgical Starscript, but it wasn’t a liturgical text. Not a ceremony or a sermon. This was a personal diary. Written by Vael lar Varloheim. The Divine Navigator. The god. She closed the journal carefully.
Holloway thought she was studying smuggled vases and trinkets. If he had any idea she had this journal, he’d arrest her on the spot. She should burn it. Hide it. Give it back.
Instead, she asked, “How much?”
Wren grinned. She paid him extra, for the risk. After he left, she sat at her desk with the journal open under her lamp. Heresy scrawled across every page.
She pictured Holloway’s face when he’d walked out. The clipped way he said goodbye. He walked away from her that day, but she crossed the line. She picked up a pen and started translating a dead god’s journal, and there was no going back after that.