The first thing Soren became aware of was the sound.
Not the sharp clang of tools or the murmur of voices—but the low, steady hum of the engines, like a hand pressed gently over the heart of the ship. It thrummed through the floorboards, through the walls, through the narrow bedframe beneath him.
He lay there for a moment, eyes still closed, feeling it.
The Aurelius was awake.
So, he supposed, he should be too.
He opened his eyes and watched a thin band of pale light slide across the ceiling as the ship tilted almost imperceptibly with a mild air current. The motions no longer startled him. They'd begun to fall into a pattern—small shifts, soft vibrations, a certain rhythm to the way the ship breathed.
He sat up, pulled on his boots, and reached for his ledger.
The leather cover felt familiar now under his fingertips.
Soren flipped it open to the fresh page he'd prepared the night before. The blank surface waited patiently, as if knowing it would be filled soon enough.
He dipped his pen and wrote, in neat, precise strokes:
|| Day 6 — early cycle. Engines stable. Atmosphere quiet.
He paused, considered, then added a single word:
Calm.
The ink soaked into the paper as if the ship itself accepted the assessment.
He closed the ledger gently and stepped out into the corridor.
___________________________________________________________________________
The hall outside his cabin was lit by a soft, low glow from the embedded wall lamps, not yet at full brightness. The air still held a trace of night-cool in it, though the warmth from the engine core seeped quietly through the metal.
Soren walked slowly, boots whispering against the floor, listening to the faint overlays of sound—distant footsteps, a tool set down somewhere, the muffled clink of ceramic from the mess.
He liked this hour.
When the day hadn't quite begun but hadn't quite stayed behind either.
A soft in-between.
As he passed the junction toward the main deck, he saw a familiar figure standing near one of the observation slits—hands folded behind his back, posture straight, gaze turned outward toward the rolling clouds below.
Cassian Wolfe did not look like someone who ever slept in.
"Scholar-General," Soren greeted softly.
Cassian turned his head a fraction. The lamp reflected faintly off the sharp line of his jaw.
"Memoirist," he replied. "You're awake early."
"So are you," Soren said before he could stop himself.
Cassian's mouth shifted, just barely. Not quite a smile, but not its absence, either.
"As a rule," Cassian said, "I prefer to see the ship before it sees me."
Soren wasn't sure what that meant exactly, but it sounded like something Cassian would say.
He stepped closer, leaving a respectful distance between them. Through the narrow slit, the sky appeared in a soft gradient of gray-blue, the horizon only a pale suggestion.
"Is the altitude stable?" Soren asked quietly.
"For now," Cassian replied. "We're holding along the overlap route. The captain will decide on the next adjustment after morning checks."
Cassian's gaze flicked briefly to the ledger tucked under Soren's arm.
"You've been consistent with your entries."
Soren straightened slightly. "I'm trying to be."
"Consistency is not something one 'tries' at," Cassian said, though his tone lacked any true criticism. "It is either maintained or not. In your case, it is."
Soren's chest warmed a little. Praise from Cassian never came wrapped in softness, but it landed with a certain gravity.
"Thank you," he said.
Cassian nodded once, then shifted, the brief moment of stillness folding neatly into purpose again.
"I have something for you."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a narrow booklet, its pages worn at the edges, corners softened by use. He held it out.
Soren took it carefully. The cover bore no title, just a series of numbers and a date.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Fragmented logs from an earlier survey," Cassian replied. "Not from the last expedition—the one before that. The formatting is irregular. I want you to study the structure."
Soren flipped it open. The handwriting inside was different from the logs he'd transcribed yesterday—tighter, sharper, with compressed spacing as if the writer had been racing against time or ink.
"You want me to… replicate this?" Soren asked.
"Not exactly," Cassian said. "I want you to observe the differences. How the writer handled pressure, how they shortened, what they chose to keep and what they abandoned. There is weight in omission as much as in inclusion."
Soren traced one of the cramped lines with his gaze. A sentence cut halfway. A margin note squeezed into a narrow gap.
"It looks rushed," he murmured.
"It was," Cassian said. "That is what interests me."
Soren looked up. "You think… our circumstances may become like this?"
Cassian's expression did not shift.
"I do not speculate," he replied. "I prepare. You should as well."
He said it plainly, not ominously, and that made it somehow easier to accept.
Soren closed the booklet carefully.
"I'll study it," he said. "And… compare it with my current style."
"Good," Cassian said. "But do not change your structure yet. The routine you maintain now will be our foundation later. Once chaos comes, we will need to know what order used to look like."
Soren thought about that for a moment.
"Then… my current logs are not just for the mission," he said slowly. "They're also… a baseline."
"Exactly," Cassian said.
Soren's grip tightened just a little on his ledger.
"I'll be careful," he said softly.
"I expect nothing less," Cassian replied.
___________________________________________________________________________
They walked together partway toward the main deck, their footsteps echoing lightly along the corridor. Cassian's stride was measured, unhurried. Even his breathing seemed to follow some internal metronome only he could hear.
"Tell me," Cassian said suddenly, "how does the ship feel to you this morning?"
Soren blinked. "Feel?"
Cassian didn't repeat himself, only waited.
Soren shifted his attention away from the clink of dishes ahead, away from the faint murmur of voices, and toward the undercurrent of sound and motion.
"The engines are steady," he said quietly. "The tilt feels… even. The air isn't heavy. It's… light, but not thin."
"Mm," Cassian said. "And the crew?"
"I haven't seen them yet," Soren admitted.
"But you have expectations," Cassian said. "What are they?"
Soren thought of Nell's bright voice, Bram's grumbling, Everett's calm focus, Elion's off-key humming, Rysen's quiet presence.
"I think," he said slowly, "they'll be in good rhythm today. Nothing feels strained."
Cassian hummed in thought.
"Your impressions match my projections," he said. "Write them down later."
"You want my expectations in the record?"
"I want your pattern recognition," Cassian corrected. "Prediction is another form of observation. Whether it proves true or not, the fact that you formed it matters."
Soren absorbed that like ink on paper.
"I understand," he said.
Cassian gave him a small, assessing look.
"You are adjusting more quickly than I expected," he said. "That is useful."
Useful. Not extraordinary. Not special. Just useful.
But somehow, that felt like the highest praise Cassian could offer.
"Thank you," Soren said again, more quietly.
Cassian inclined his head. "Go eat, Eryndor. Then return to your logs. Bring the booklet back to me once you've finished studying it."
"Yes, Scholar-General."
Cassian turned down another corridor without looking back, his steps already angled toward some other duty.
Soren watched him go for a heartbeat, the worn booklet heavy and real in his hands.
Then he turned toward the mess.
___________________________________________________________________________
The warmth hit him the moment he stepped inside—lamp-glow and steam from kettles and the mingled scent of bread and porridge. Voices overlapped in gentle waves, not loud, not chaotic, just… alive.
Nell was at one table, trying to balance three cups in one hand and failing spectacularly.
Bram was complaining about something to do with bolts.
Liora sat with her elbows on the table, eyes half-closed, as if arguing with the concept of morning itself.
Rysen moved between the tables without taking up space, a quiet line of steadiness brushing past everything else.
Soren slipped into the background, as he always did, and the sight settled something in him.
He took a tray, accepted a bowl someone slid toward him without quite tracking who, and found a seat near the end of a bench.
For a moment, he didn't eat.
He just watched.
Routine.
The way Marcell always sat facing the exit.
The way Elion gestured while she spoke, nearly knocking her spoon over.
The way Everett's movements were precise even when lifting a cup.
There was a weight to it—a gravity that held the ship together more tightly than bolts. A repetition that wasn't dull but… anchoring.
The weight of routine.
He opened the ledger on his lap, pen hovering.
Without overthinking it, he wrote:
|| Crew alignment: stable. Morning tempo: familiar. Ship's mood: steady.
___________________________________________________________________________
He was halfway through his bowl when a shadow fell across the edge of his ledger.
"Mind if I sit here?"
The voice was calm, low, familiar.
Soren looked up.
Rysen stood beside the bench, a plate in one hand, the faint steam from his tea curling in the air.
"Oh—of course," Soren said, shifting to make room.
Rysen sat with an ease that never felt intrusive. He placed his cup down, then nodded toward the booklet resting next to Soren's tray.
"New assignment?"
"Yes," Soren said. "From Cassian. Old logs from a previous survey. He wants me to study how the writer handled… pressure."
Rysen's gaze sharpened slightly—not with alarm, just attention.
"Pressure," he repeated. "Physically or… structurally?"
"Both, I think," Soren replied. "The writing looks… different. Tight. Rushed."
Rysen hummed thoughtfully.
"That tracks," he said. "People's hands tend to change with stress."
Soren tilted his head. "Have you seen that often?"
Rysen smiled faintly. "I'm a medic. I see it everywhere. The more distressed someone is, the more their body betrays them, even when their face doesn't."
Soren glanced at his own handwriting—steady, even, neat.
"And what does mine say?" he asked, half-teasing, half-curious.
Rysen's eyes flicked over the page.
"That you're careful," he said. "And that you're still learning where to relax."
Soren blinked. "Is that… good or bad?"
"Neither," Rysen said. "It's honest."
Soren didn't quite know how to respond to that, but the words lingered.
He lowered his gaze to his bowl again.
"You've adjusted well to the ship," Rysen added. "Your steps are surer now. You don't brace as much when we tilt."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice more than people think," Rysen said mildly.
Soren thought of Cassian saying something similar, in his own way.
Observation. Pattern recognition. Baselines.
He took a small breath.
"The routine helps," Soren admitted quietly. "Knowing what to expect. Having things I do at the same time every day. It… makes the ship feel less like a place I'm visiting and more like somewhere I live."
Rysen's eyes softened—just for a moment.
"That's good," he said softly. "The Aurelius is easier on people who treat it like a home."
Soren's chest tightened, but not uncomfortably.
Home.
He let the word sit in his mind for a second.
Then he wrote, beneath his earlier line:
The ship feels more familiar today. The routines are beginning to fit my hands.
When he looked up, Rysen was watching him write—not reading, just… watching his hand move.
"You really write everything down, don't you?" Rysen asked.
Soren smiled faintly. "I try to. It's my job."
Rysen shook his head lightly. "No. That's not what I meant."
He picked up his tea, gaze drifting briefly toward the porthole window.
"It doesn't feel like you're just fulfilling a duty," he said. "It feels like… you're listening. To the ship, to us, to yourself."
Soren's pen stilled.
He hadn't thought of it that way.
But hearing it said aloud made something inside him settle deeper. The weight of what he did felt… different now. Not heavier. Not lighter.
Just more real.
"I suppose I am," he said quietly.
Rysen nodded once, as if that was the answer he'd expected.
"Good," he said. "Keep doing that."
Soren lowered his gaze again, letting the words fold gently into him like another layer of routine.
Outside, the ship hummed.
The engines held steady.
The sky beyond their walls slowly brightened.
And for the first time since boarding, he felt not just like someone recording the ship's days…
…but like someone allowed to belong to them.
___________________________________________________________________________
The morning moved gently through the ship, the hum beneath Soren's feet shifting from the low thrum of early cycle to the brighter, fuller resonance of full operation. Crew footsteps became more frequent in the corridor outside the mess—some brisk, some dragging, all familiar.
Soren finished the last few bites of his meal, closed his ledger, and gathered the thin booklet Cassian had given him. The weight of it felt different now—not heavy in a foreboding way, but in the sense of responsibility. Like he had been trusted with something meaningful.
Rysen remained beside him, quietly finishing his tea. Soren hadn't realized how natural it felt to share a table like this until he stood up.
"I should get to work," Soren said softly.
Rysen nodded, taking the empty bowl from his tray before he could carry it.
"I'll take care of this."
"Oh—it's alright, I can—"
"It's fine," Rysen said gently, not dismissively. "Your hands are better used on the logs."
Soren hesitated, then nodded.
"Thank you."
Rysen offered a faint, warm smile that didn't reach full visibility but was unmistakably there.
"Come find me later if your hand cramps from copying," he added lightly. "I'll give you something to ease it."
Soren's ears warmed.
"I… will."
Rysen disappeared toward the cleaning station, and Soren stepped out into the corridor, the quiet returning the moment he left the mess hall's warmth.
___________________________________________________________________________
Everett's door was half-open when Soren arrived. Inside, the Archivist moved with methodical calm, rearranging a set of weathered manuscripts on a side table.
"Come in," Everett said without looking up.
Soren stepped inside. The air always smelled faintly of old paper and a hint of metal polish—a mix that was oddly comforting.
"I'm here to work through the logs," Soren said, holding up both his ledger and the booklet Cassian had lent him.
Everett nodded. "Good. Take that desk."
He pointed to a small, sturdy table near the wall lamp. Soren settled in, placing the booklet to his left and his ledger in the center.
Everett walked over with a small ruler and set it at the edge of Soren's workspace.
"For margin measurement," Everett said. "Keep your lines consistent."
Soren smiled faintly.
"I'll do my best."
"I know," Everett replied simply.
Then he returned to his own work, the two of them falling into a comfortable silence broken only by the soft scratch of quills and the occasional shift of parchment.
Soren studied the booklet again—the old cramped script, the rushed notes, the places where ink feathered from pressure or impatience.
Pressure. Stress.
Life condensed into narrow lines.
He tried to imagine the person who had written these words.
Someone on this ship, years ago.
Someone moving through spaces he now moved through.
Someone noticing things he had yet to understand.
There was something humbling about that.
He dipped his quill and began copying one of the compressed entries into his ledger—not to replicate the writer's form, but to observe the differences.
• His own margins stayed even.
• His handwriting sharper, clearer.
• The spacing steady.
It made him wonder what the Aurelius would look like if he had to write in a rush.
If something forced speed into his hand.
He hoped it wouldn't.
But he understood what Cassian meant:
Routine gives structure. If chaos comes, your structure becomes your anchor.
He copied three more lines, careful with his strokes.
Everett glanced over once—not reading, just checking alignment.
"Consistent," he noted. "Good."
Soren exhaled softly in relief.
___________________________________________________________________________
A knock sounded on the doorframe, followed by a bright voice:
"Is this where the quiet people are hiding?"
Elion leaned inside, hair slightly wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from—well, Soren wasn't sure from what, but it suited her.
Everett didn't look up.
"Your navigational chart is on the wrong table."
"Oh, that's where I left it," Elion said, already wandering toward it.
She passed by Soren, peeking curiously at his work.
"Ooh, new logs?" she asked.
"Old logs," Soren corrected softly. "Cassian lent them to me."
"Elion," Everett said sharply.
"I'm not touching anything!" she protested, lifting her hands.
Soren hid a smile behind his ledger.
Elion gave him a quick grin before gathering her chart.
"Well, keep up the good work, memoirist," she said lightly. "If your writing stays this neat, Everett might actually start smiling one day."
Everett made a noncommittal noise.
Elion laughed and slipped out as quickly as she entered.
The room returned to quiet again.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren settled deeper into the task.
Copying. Comparing.
Notating differences between old logs and his own structure.
As he worked, something interesting emerged—not from the logs themselves, but from what the gaps suggested.
The older memoirist:
• shortened words
• skipped descriptors
• wrote with uneven pressure
• abandoned neatness in favor of speed
The writing looked tired.
Soren ran his thumb along one cramped line.
What were they feeling at that moment?
What did they see?
What did they fear?
What did they not have time to tell?
He felt his breath shift.
There was a strange heaviness in understanding that someone had once lived this job differently—and that their rushed lines might've been the only remnants of a moment no one else remembered.
His own logs suddenly felt more… fragile.
More important.
He wrote quietly:
|| Studying previous writing reveals not only content but circumstance. The hand shows the moment. The moment shows the weight.
___________________________________________________________________________
The door opened again, more softly this time.
Rysen stepped inside carrying a small tin container.
"Everett," he said, "I brought the hand cream you requested."
Everett glanced over. "Set it on the second shelf."
Rysen did, then turned toward Soren.
"You've been working for a while," he observed. "How's your hand?"
Soren flexed his fingers unconsciously. "A little stiff. Nothing serious."
Rysen approached, quiet as always, and placed a small folded cloth beside Soren's ledger.
"For support," he said. "Rest your wrist on it. It'll prevent strain."
Soren adjusted his position, trying it.
He blinked in surprise.
"It… helps more than I expected."
"That's the point."
A soft smile touched Rysen's lips.
"You're meticulous. Your hands need to last."
The words warmed Soren more than the cloth did.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Rysen nodded, then added in a lower voice:
"When you're done, come by the infirmary. I'll check your grip strength. Just to make sure you're not overworking yourself."
Soren flushed slightly. "I'm fine, truly."
"I know," Rysen said gently. "But let me check anyway."
His smile was soft but certain.
Then he left as quietly as he entered.
Everett didn't comment, but Soren noticed the Archivist's pen pause for a fraction of a second before moving again.
___________________________________________________________________________
After Rysen left, the room felt different.
Not emptier—just calmer.
Soren wrote one more line in his ledger:
Someone is paying attention. It makes the work feel less solitary.
He breathed out slowly, letting the atmosphere settle around him again.
The hum of the ship.
The steady scratch of Everett's quill.
The gentle weight of routine anchoring him to the day.
Cassian had said the baseline mattered.
Soren understood that now.
Routine wasn't monotony.
Routine was memory.
Routine was stability.
Routine was the quiet heartbeat of the ship.
And today, he felt the weight of it in a way he hadn't before—
not heavy enough to burden,
just heavy enough to remind him that what he recorded
would one day matter.
He turned the page.
Dipped his pen.
And continued to write.
___________________________________________________________________________