The morning light inside Soren's cabin was soft enough that it blurred the sharp edges of the room. He woke slowly, eyelids lifting to the faint golden glow slipping through the narrow slats of the window shutters. The Aurelius was already awake—its hum steady, unbroken, pulsing through the mattress and the wooden frame beneath him.
Soren let the vibration settle into his bones before sitting up.
There were some mornings when the ship felt heavier, its sound a bass note vibrating through every rib. But today, the tone was… lighter. Not weaker—just smoother, as though the air outside had aligned itself politely around the hull.
He breathed in.
No sharp cold. No lingering damp. Just quiet readiness.
He reached for his ledger, running a finger along the embossed edge before opening it.
|| Cycle shift: early light muted, tone soft. Engine hum steady, no fluctuation.
He paused, letting his pen hover above the paper as he listened again—intently now, seeking the subtle nuances Cassian had told him to pay attention to in older logs.
Nothing irregular.
Nothing out of place.
Just the ship's slow, even breath.
He closed the ledger gently.
Today felt… settled.
And sometimes, the settled days were the ones that taught the most.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren stepped into the corridor and immediately felt the shift in temperature from his cabin. The hallway carried the faint metallic coolness the Aurelius always exhaled before the day grew busy. His steps echoed lightly—he'd learned exactly how to walk so as not to disturb the thinner planks near the corner joints.
He passed a crew member or two, offering brief nods. Their greetings were quiet, habitual, wrapped in the rhythm of morning. No one lingered—it wasn't the hour for conversation.
The nearer he got to the main deck, the warmer the air became, as though sunlight had begun spinning itself into the ship's metal.
When he emerged onto the open deck, he paused.
Not because something was wrong—
but because the sky was beautiful.
The clouds below the Aurelius were arranged in soft, rolling layers, each one a subtly different shade of white. The low sun cast a faint blush across their tops, turning the world beneath the ship into a shifting field of pale rose.
The breeze that greeted him was neither cold nor warm; it simply brushed past as though greeting him in return.
He stepped forward, letting the air curl through his shirt and tug gently at a loose strand of hair. The stillness was deeper than yesterday's—it felt like being held in cupped hands.
And Soren stood there for a moment, breathing it in.
___________________________________________________________________________
There were footsteps on the deck—measured, deliberate. Not hurried.
Soren knew who they belonged to before turning his head.
Cassian Wolfe stood several paces down the railing, coat fluttering lightly in the breeze, eyes trained on the horizon with a focus that could cut through metal.
He didn't call out.
He didn't gesture.
But his gaze flicked once—just enough for Soren to know he could approach.
So he did.
When Soren reached him, Cassian spoke without shifting posture.
"Stabilizer tone is clean this morning."
Soren nodded. "I heard no dips."
"Good," Cassian murmured. "Yesterday's shift was minor, but such things accumulate. Your noticing it was correct."
The compliment—if it was one—was offered in Cassian's usual flat tone. No warmth, no softness, no embellishment. Yet it sat heavier than praise.
Soren angled his body toward the rail, watching the faint currents swirl beneath the ship.
"Does this level of calm… happen often?" he asked quietly.
Cassian's eyes narrowed—not in displeasure, but in analysis.
"Often enough to be familiar. Rare enough to matter."
Soren waited for explanation.
Cassian obliged.
"Calm skies teach," he said. "They make the ship predictable. When things are predictable, you learn how to listen properly."
Soren nodded slowly, absorbing that.
Cassian shifted his weight slightly, folding his arms across his chest.
"Everett tells me your correlations were accurate."
Soren felt his breath tighten in the smallest way. "He… did?"
Cassian gave a single nod. "He does not report accuracy lightly. And he rarely reports it at all. Accept the fact."
Soren wasn't sure how to accept it, but the words still warmed him—quietly, inwardly, like a lantern lit behind his ribs.
Cassian studied him for a moment longer, then turned back to the horizon.
"Your sensitivity is improving. Keep refining it. Before long, you will need the skill."
Soren blinked. "Need?"
Cassian didn't elaborate. His attention returned to the sky with unshakable focus.
Soren breathed in the silence beside him—
not awkward, not heavy, just… thoughtful.
Eventually Cassian straightened.
"Work well today," he said, and moved off with the fluid precision of someone accustomed to command.
Soren watched him go, absorbing the weight of that short interaction.
Then he exhaled slowly and turned toward the mid-deck.
___________________________________________________________________________
The archivist was where Soren expected him: in a narrow alcove near the stairs, leaning over a collection of older expedition papers spread out in perfect order.
Everett looked up as Soren approached.
"Your timing is convenient," he said. "I was about to call for you."
Soren stepped closer. "Is this about the logs from two cycles ago?"
"Yes." Everett pointed to a line of text on one of the sheets. The handwriting was tight, almost crushed into the page. "I want you to practice reading this level of duress."
Soren lowered his gaze to the text. He didn't know the previous memoirist, but the way the lines compressed felt like a heartbeat gone too fast, a mind pressed too close to danger.
"What happened here?" he asked quietly.
Everett didn't answer for several seconds.
Finally:
"Pressure," he said. "Of many kinds."
Soren didn't press further. The logs weren't stories—they were remnants. Echoes. And he wasn't entitled to their secrets.
Everett placed a new sheet in front of him.
"Rewrite this passage in your own hand," he instructed. "Copy the content, not the emotion. Your script must stay clean regardless of circumstance."
Soren took the paper.
He sat at a small side-desk, dipped his pen, and started writing—slowly at first, then more steadily. Everett didn't hover, but he remained present, scanning other documents as Soren worked.
Minutes stretched quietly.
Ink flowed.
The ship hummed.
Nothing else existed in that moment but the sound of his quill and the faint shift of wind outside.
When he finished, he set his pen down.
Everett inspected the page, scanning it with meticulous care.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Good. You separated accuracy from panic. That is essential."
Soren exhaled, tension he hadn't noticed easing from his shoulders.
Everett closed the old log gently.
"You'll refine more of these later. For now, continue your morning observations."
Soren nodded. "I will."
As he turned to leave, Everett added, almost as an afterthought:
"Your hand is steadier today. That's a good sign."
Soren paused, a quiet warmth rising inside him.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Everett waved him off. "Go."
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren made his way back to the deck, ledger tucked under his arm. The air felt slightly different now—still calm, but with an awareness threaded through it, as though the ship itself acknowledged every small effort he made.
He opened the ledger and wrote:
|| Rewrote old log passage. Maintained structure under duress template. Legibility intact.
He closed the ledger.
Feeling the ship breathed with him.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren returned to the main deck with the old log still echoing faintly in his thoughts.
Not the words—those were dry, clipped, spare.
But the compression of them.
Whoever had written that entry had been pressed for time.
Pressed for breath, maybe.
Pressed for something he could only feel in the spacing of the strokes.
Soren stood at the rail for a moment, letting the open air loosen that peculiar weight. Below the ship, clouds continued drifting in patient formations, each one washing into the next like slow-moving tides.
He inhaled deeply, letting the sky stretch across his senses until the tension from earlier—Everett's scrutiny, Cassian's expectations, his own silent questions—thinned out into something lighter.
This was why he wrote.
Not for duty alone, but for this clarity.
___________________________________________________________________________
Footsteps approached from behind—quiet, even, unhurried.
Rysen Vale.
Soren didn't turn immediately; he recognized the steady cadence of the medic's walk now. Rysen came to stand beside him, leaning lightly against the rail with one forearm.
"Training with Everett?" he asked, voice low enough not to disturb the morning.
Soren let out a small breath. "Was it that obvious?"
"The look on your face," Rysen said, lips curling just slightly. "Everyone has it the first few weeks."
"What look?" Soren asked cautiously.
"'I have just learned something, and I'm not sure whether to be relieved or concerned.'"
Soren blinked. "…Oh."
Rysen chuckled under his breath, soft and warm. "Don't worry. If Everett didn't think you were suited for the work, he wouldn't give you anything difficult. He simply expects precision. It's his way."
That eased Soren more than he expected.
They stood together quietly for a moment, wind curling around them.
Rysen's gaze drifted out over the lower clouds. "These days of calm… don't get too attached. They never last as long as anyone hopes."
"Cassian said something similar," Soren murmured.
"Of course he did." Rysen's tone held no judgment—only a calm understanding. "Those of us who've flown long enough… we learn to feel the edges before they sharpen."
Soren absorbed that.
"Still," Rysen added, "calm days have their advantages. The ship listens better when the sky behaves."
Soren turned to him slightly. "Do you listen too?"
Rysen hummed in thought. "Not the same way you do. I feel more than hear. Tension in floorboards. Shift in air pressure. A certain stillness in people's breathing." He paused. "You're the one who hears."
Soren felt a faint warmth rise along his chest; the phrasing wasn't meant as praise, but it still sounded like recognition.
Before he could respond, Rysen pushed away from the rail with his elbow.
"Take care today," he said. "Long hours at the desk stiffen the shoulders. And Everett will absolutely give you more handwriting drills."
Soren groaned softly. "He already did."
Rysen laughed. "Then you're in for it."
He left with a small nod, disappearing down the walkway, cart rattling softly as he went.
The air beside Soren felt a little warmer for a moment after he'd gone.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren stayed at the rail for some time, reviewing the newest patterns in the sky. When he turned, intending to finally return inside, he froze—
Atticus Riven was crossing the deck.
Not urgently.
Not silently.
Just there, with the quiet authority that made the ship unconsciously adjust around him.
He was speaking with Marcell near the forward lines, reviewing tension points and weather projections, but even at a distance, his presence pressed gently at the edge of Soren's awareness.
Soren hesitated, unsure if he should slip away unnoticed.
But Atticus's gaze flicked toward him—brief, precise—before returning to Marcell.
Not a summons.
Not approval.
Just awareness.
As though the captain simply noted Soren's position the same way he noted the sky's shifts and the stabilizer's tone.
The acknowledgment was so slight someone else might have missed it entirely.
Soren didn't.
It pulled something taut inside him—something resembling both embarrassment and warmth.
He dipped his head subtly, though Atticus's attention had already moved on.
He had no idea what the captain thought of him.
But he knew Atticus noticed him.
And for reasons he didn't yet understand, that mattered.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren returned to his cabin, closed the door behind him, and sank into the chair at his little desk. The folder Everett had given him sat on the left, older logs on the right. His own ledger lay open in the middle like the center point of a balance.
He dipped his pen.
|| Copied older log under Everett's direction. Learning to separate structure from emotion. Writing improved.
He paused.
The thought that came next wasn't about routine—not entirely.
He wrote it anyway.
|| The crew feels steady today. Rysen attentive. Cassian alert. Captain's presence quiet but exact.
He closed the ledger slowly, fingertips resting on the cover as if sealing the morning into it.
The calm wasn't empty.
It was formative.
And Soren felt, in a subtle, grounding way, that today had brought him one step deeper into understanding what it meant to belong on this ship.
___________________________________________________________________________