Soren woke before the morning bell, the cabin still dim with the soft pre-dawn glow leaking through the small porthole. For a moment, he lay still and simply listened—letting the rhythmic thrum of the Aurelius fill the quiet.
It was steadier today.
Less of a pulse, more of a low, continuous breath.
He sat up, rubbed the faint sleep from his eyes, and pulled his ledger toward him. Before dressing, he made the first entry of the day—a habit that had begun forming without him noticing.
|| Day 5 — Early morning. Ship stable. No disturbances overnight.
He paused, tapped the pen once, then added:
|| Atmosphere quiet.
He didn't know why he wrote that. But it felt true.
___________________________________________________________________________
By the time he reached the main deck, the crew was already moving.
Elion was narrowing a set of navigation lines with crisp strokes of her pencil, Everett cross-checking an old map beside her. Marcell and Liora stood near the auxiliary engine panel—Marcell reviewing something on a clipboard while Liora made adjustments with careful precision.
Cassian Wolfe was by the railing today, reviewing a leather-bound folder filled with folded documents, each marked with geometric symbols and ink notations. His presence always carried a certain weight—not intimidating, but undeniably authoritative.
Atticus was at the helm, posture as straight as ever, gaze forward as if nothing else existed outside that direction.
The ship leaned slightly to the right, adjusting course. Elion spoke without looking up.
"We're entering the older survey line in ten minutes."
Cassian closed his folder. "Good. Maintain the southern drift. It will give us the necessary overlap."
Everett leaned closer to Elion. "If the winds stay mild, we should be aligned by the second hour."
Soren stepped beside them quietly. "Should I note the survey overlapping specifically?"
"Yes," Everett said, offering him a brief glance. "This is the first time an expedition has revisited this exact route since the last one went missing. Documenting the overlap is essential."
Elion added, "Even the slightest divergence will matter later."
Soren nodded, writing their points down. Then he hesitated. "Will we be using the older expedition's route as a reference?"
"At intervals," Cassian answered from across the deck, clearly having heard him. "Not continuously. Their route was incomplete."
The way he said "incomplete" carried a shadow of meaning Soren didn't fully grasp—but he didn't pry.
Instead, he focused on what he knew: write what is said, what is seen, what is real.
The deck shifted again, the horizon tilting as the Aurelius aligned itself with the painted grid Elion had drawn moments earlier.
Everyone seemed slightly more alert now—not tense, just focused. As though crossing into a region of old maps required steadier breaths.
___________________________________________________________________________
Cassian approached Soren directly for the first time that morning.
"Memoirist," he said, tone level. "Walk with me."
Soren followed as Cassian moved toward the quieter corridor beside the observation windows.
Cassian handed him a folded sheet. "This is a copy of the older survey's last verifiable position. The original is in the archive, but I want your ledger to hold a parallel record."
Soren unfolded it gently. The map fragment was smaller than he expected—just a quadrant, marked with faint dotted lines and a circled point annotated with: Last confirmed signal.
"That's where they were last heard from?" Soren asked.
Cassian made a soft sound—not quite agreement, not quite denial.
"That was their last transmitted location," he clarified. "Whether the position itself was accurate is still debated."
Soren nodded slowly. "Should I replicate the entire fragment?"
"No. Only what you deem necessary for your record." Cassian's eyes held him for a fraction of a second. "A memoirist is not a cartographer. Your purpose is context."
Soren felt the words settle into him. Purpose. Context.
He wrote those mentally.
As Cassian turned to leave, he added, "When we near the transmitted point, I will inform you personally."
Soren bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
Cassian's boots clicked steadily against metal as he walked back toward the helm.
___________________________________________________________________________
The morning moved in layered rhythms.
Nell hurried by with a stack of folded linens. "Don't mind the rush, it's inventory day," he explained breathlessly. "Cassian checked the supply reports and decided we should 'optimize'—which is scholar-general talk for 'rearrange everything you thought you'd already organized.'"
Soren smiled faintly. "Do you need help?"
"No, no, no. If you help, he'll think you're part of my section and give you work forever. Run while you can."
Nell dashed off between storage racks, leaving faint laughter in his wake.
Later, Rysen crossed paths with Soren outside the medical bay.
"You look sharper today," Rysen commented, adjusting a strap on his medkit.
"I slept well," Soren replied. "And the ship feels… steady."
"It does," Rysen agreed. "Some mornings, the Aurelius feels like she's listening."
The phrasing made Soren blink. "Listening?"
Rysen shrugged lightly. "Every vessel has moods. You'll sense them eventually."
Then he smiled, gentle and warm. "Don't worry. That's not medical advice."
Soren huffed a quiet laugh. "I didn't think it was."
Rysen tapped the edge of his medkit. "If your head feels heavy later, drink water before assuming it's something strange."
"I will."
Rysen left with an easy stride, and Soren noted the comment but didn't dwell on it. Most likely, Rysen meant nothing beyond practical caution.
___________________________________________________________________________
As the day approached its midpoint, Soren was standing near the mid-deck, copying the map fragment into his ledger. The ship was calm, the light steady, conversations muted.
Then—very faintly—something like a ripple passed through the deck.
Not a vibration.
Not engine turbulence.
A shift.
Barely perceptible, as if the air had thickened for half a second.
Soren paused, pen hovering, breath caught in his chest.
No one else reacted.
Elion continued adjusting a compass setting.
Bram tightened a bolt near the auxiliary pipe.
Marcell checked the rotation mechanism of a pulley.
Everything looked normal.
Soren lowered his pen.
Probably just my imagination.
He finished copying the map fragment.
But when he closed his ledger, he noticed his handwriting on the last line had a slight lean—tilted right, as though his hand had moved with the ship.
He stared at it for a moment.
Nothing unsettling.
Nothing alarming.
Just odd enough to notice.
He didn't cross it out.
Instead, he wrote in small letters beside it:
|| Light spatial shift? Momentary? No reaction from crew.
As soon as he wrote it, he wondered if he should erase it.
But he didn't.
He closed the book gently.
___________________________________________________________________________
While exiting the mid-deck corridor, Soren nearly collided with Atticus, who stepped out from the helm walkway at the same moment.
"Ah—captain. Sorry."
Atticus stopped, steady as if he'd anticipated the movement.
"No harm done," he said. His gaze flicked briefly to Soren's ledger, then to Soren's face. "You look unsettled."
"I'm not," Soren said quickly. Then, more truthfully: "Just concentrating."
Atticus regarded him quietly, not pushing, not prying.
"Good," he said. "Concentration is necessary near the survey line."
He walked past Soren, then paused.
"If anything feels amiss, even if it seems insignificant, make a note. Order comes from clarity."
Soren felt a faint chill—not of fear, but of something sharpened, like a sudden alignment of responsibility.
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus gave a small nod—the kind that carried more weight than its size allowed—before continuing toward the helm.
Soren watched him for a second, then held his ledger closer to his chest.
Whether the earlier shift meant something or nothing, he had written it down.
And now, according to Atticus…
That was exactly what he should do.
___________________________________________________________________________
The afternoon sun angled across the deck, turning the metal railings warm beneath Soren's fingertips as he stepped into the open air again. The Aurelius had settled back into its steady glide, engines humming with calm consistency.
For a while, Soren simply watched the clouds drifting beneath them—pale and slow, like sheets pulled across a quiet morning bed. Nothing stirred in the sky. Nothing pushed or pulled. If not for the faint shift he'd felt earlier, the day could have been the same as any before.
He exhaled softly and opened his ledger.
Beside the small note on the "light spatial shift," he added:
|| No further disturbances.
That felt like the right thing to write—objective, contained, carefully neutral.
___________________________________________________________________________
Everett approached a few minutes later, carrying a small stack of old reports bound with a thin cord.
"Soren," he called gently.
Soren looked up. "Yes?"
"I brought what you asked for." Everett placed the stack on the railing between them. "Cross-referenced notes of the older survey line. Some of these contain visual descriptions that may help you contextualize today's readings."
Soren thumbed through the top sheet. "Thank you. I don't want to misinterpret anything."
"That's all any historian fears," Everett said, tone faintly amused. "Interpreting too much… or too little."
He rested his elbows lightly against the railing, gaze drifting toward the sky. "You're doing well. You adapt quickly. That's uncommon among memoirists."
Soren blinked. "Is it?"
Everett nodded. "Many get overwhelmed by details. You seem to arrange them naturally."
Soren considered that, unsure how to respond. "I… just write what feels accurate."
"That's precisely why it works."
Everett straightened. "If you need help interpreting any phrasing from the previous expedition, let me know before you assume meaning. Their terminology was… flexible."
Soren smiled faintly. "I'll ask."
"Good. I'd rather clarify now than have to correct things later." Everett adjusted the cord securing the papers. "Elion mentioned you're observing the crew more closely. Don't forget to observe yourself too."
Soren blinked. "Myself?"
"The patterns you keep, the ones you break." Everett's tone remained gentle. "Sometimes those matter most."
Soren nodded slowly, filing the comment away without fully understanding it.
Everett returned to the navigation station, leaving Soren with the old reports and the quiet thought lingering behind.
___________________________________________________________________________
Later, Soren made his way back toward his cabin to put away the survey notes. He walked through the same central corridor where he had felt the odd shift earlier.
Today, it seemed perfectly normal.
Feet against metal.
Voice echoes soft and clear.
Air evenly circulated.
Lights steady.
He paused midway, checking the fixture overhead. No flicker. No hum. No hesitation.
Soren let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Maybe it really had been nothing.
He continued toward his cabin—
"Eryndor!"
Marcell Dayne's voice reached him from behind. The vice-captain walked briskly toward him, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Yes, Vice-Captain?" Soren straightened.
Marcell stopped in front of him, studying him the way he studied structural joints—measured, focused, deliberate.
"At shift rotation, I want you to shadow the mechanic team for fifteen minutes," Marcell said. "Observe standard pipe checks. We don't need you to perform them—just document the routine."
"Understood," Soren replied.
Marcell's eyes lingered another moment. "You look like you're thinking too hard."
"I'm just reviewing the morning entries," Soren said honestly.
Marcell nodded once. "Good. Think as much as you want. Just don't hesitate when you write."
"I won't."
"See that you don't." Marcell clapped the clipboard lightly, almost like a pat. "Carry on, memoirist."
Then he continued down the hall, brisk and momentum-driven as always.
Soren watched him leave, then resumed the walk to his cabin.
Inside, he placed the old reports neatly on the desk and exhaled softly. The corridor had been normal. Marcell had been normal. Everything had been normal.
He wrote:
|| Corridor stable. No repeated shifts.
Then closed the ledger again.
___________________________________________________________________________
When Soren returned to the deck, Elion was standing beside a small navigation window, her hand against the glass like she was feeling the wind change through the metal.
"Pressure's picking up," she murmured.
"Is that bad?" Soren asked.
"No. Just something to adjust for later." She glanced at him. "Marcell said you're shadowing the mechanic team?"
"Yes."
"Good luck," Elion said with a tiny smile. "Bram explains things in the most confusing order possible."
As if summoned by his name, Bram lifted his head from behind an open panel.
"I heard that," he grumbled, emerging with a wrench in one hand and a coil of wire in the other. "My explanations are perfectly clear."
"To you," Elion countered.
"To everyone," Bram insisted, though the way he rubbed the back of his neck betrayed a hint of embarrassment. "Anyway, memoirist. You shadowing me later?"
"That's what I was told," Soren said.
"Alright then." Bram nodded, gesturing vaguely at the pipes. "Just write what you see. Don't bother trying to understand what it means yet."
"I wasn't planning to," Soren replied.
"Good. Saves both of us time."
Elion chuckled softly.
The interaction felt… familiar now. Simple but grounding. Exactly the sort of thing that made the ship feel like a place rather than just a mission.
___________________________________________________________________________
Near the second hour past mid-afternoon, while Bram was showing Soren how to check for pressure inconsistencies in the pipe joints, the deck vibrated—very slightly.
Bram didn't seem to feel it. He was muttering about mineral buildup inside older pipes.
But Soren felt it.
A thin, delicate tremor—like someone had plucked a string beneath the floorboards.
Not unsettling.
Just unexpected.
He placed a hand against the metal frame.
Nothing continued.
No vibration after.
Bram noticed his pause. "Something wrong?"
"No," Soren said quickly. "Just… thinking."
"Well don't think too hard." Bram pointed at the pipe. "Write this down: no leakage, no shift, pressure stable."
Soren wrote the line.
But he also added, much smaller:
|| Second brief vibration. No reaction from mechanic.
He didn't know why he kept writing these small things, but his instinct said to keep them recorded.
Not interpreted.
Just written.
___________________________________________________________________________
Dinner hour was calm. Nell served soup and toasted bread, moving between tables with practiced cheer. Rysen spoke with a pair of crew members, checking their condition after morning headaches. Everett and Elion sat together over a shared data slate, reviewing the day's route.
Soren tucked himself near the window, eating quietly before updating his notes.
Outside, the horizon was fading into twilight—deep blue with streaks of burnished gold. The sky felt softer, heavier, like the world was preparing to settle into sleep.
When he finished eating, he leaned over his ledger and began the evening entry.
|| Day 5 — Late afternoon into evening.
|| Operations stable. Pipe checks routine. Crew at full function. Minor pressure vibrations noted twice. No pattern observed.
He paused, pen resting lightly against the margin.
He added:
|| Atmosphere calm. No abnormalities requiring report.
He closed the ledger.
Then opened it again—just to check that the lines looked the same.
They did.
___________________________________________________________________________
As Soren left the mess to return to the deck, he nearly bumped into Atticus again—this time at a narrow corner where the corridor met the helm walkway.
"Eryndor," Atticus said evenly.
"Captain."
Atticus's gaze flicked toward the ledger at Soren's side. "You've written much today."
"I'm trying to keep things clear," Soren said.
"That is your role."
Soren nodded.
Atticus seemed to study him for a quiet moment—not suspiciously, not intensely, just… observing, the way he observed the deck before giving any order.
Then he said, "If you notice anything concerning—structural, atmospheric, or interpersonal—bring it to me directly. Small details matter in early expeditions."
"I will," Soren promised.
Atticus gave a very subtle nod.
Approval.
Reassurance.
Duty acknowledged.
Then he stepped aside.
"Carry on, memoirist."
Soren felt something settle inside him—steady, quiet, purposeful—as he continued down the hall.
Tonight, when he wrote his final line, he would know exactly what to say.
___________________________________________________________________________