By the time Soren reached the mess hall, the ship had fully settled into its morning rhythm.
The room was half-full—enough people to fill the air with low conversation, not enough to make it crowded. The long tables were bolted to the floor, their edges softened by years of use. Mugs clinked against metal trays; the smell of broth and toasted bread mixed with the faint oil-and-wood scent that never quite left any part of the Aurelius.
Soren stepped into the doorway and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the slightly dimmer light. The hum of the engines came more muted here, filtered through layers of bulkhead and insulation. It felt like the center of the ship's chest—quiet, steady, warm.
He joined the short line, took a tray, and let the cook on duty ladle out piping hot soup and a portion of grain. Routine. Familiar already.
As he turned to find a place to sit, a hand lifted from one of the tables.
"Over here."
Nell Ashford was waving at him, a quick arc of movement that nearly knocked her spoon into her soup. Beside her, Ivor Hart reached over and caught the spoon before it tipped, moving with a reflex that suggested he'd done this more than once.
Soren made his way over.
"Morning," Nell said, sliding aside to make space. Her hair was pulled into a loose braid today, a few strands already escaping to frame her face. "You're in time. They haven't run out of the decent bread yet."
Soren glanced down at his tray. "Is there… indecent bread?"
"Dry corner pieces," Nell said gravely. "No one deserves those this early."
"That's dramatic," Ivor muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.
Soren sat opposite them, setting his ledger beside his tray. He wasn't technically supposed to bring it to meals, but no one had complained yet. And sometimes, things happened here that were worth recording—patterns in conversations, changes in mood.
"How's the ear today, Memoirist?" Ivor asked as he stirred his soup. "Anything interesting in the engine hum?"
Soren shook his head. "Nothing unusual. Layer shift earlier, but it settled as expected."
"Good," Ivor said. "I prefer the ship not sounding like it's about to cough up a lung."
"She doesn't cough," Nell said, affronted. "She… clears her throat."
Ivor gave her a look. "That's worse."
Soren hid a small smile, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.
"You talk about the Aurelius like she's a person," he observed.
Nell shrugged. "You stay on a ship long enough, you start giving her moods." She gestured around. "You can tell, can't you? Some days the planks creak more, some days the air goes strange. It's like she wakes up on the wrong side of the sky."
"Or the engineer adjusted something," Ivor said dryly.
"That too," Nell conceded.
Soren thought of Cassian, of Everett's quiet insistence that structure and awareness were intertwined, of Rysen's comment about feeling tension in floorboards. Everyone had their own way of reading the Aurelius. He was just… learning his.
He took another spoonful of soup.
"How are you finding the shifts?" Nell asked. "Keeping up?"
"I think so," Soren said. "The pace feels… less unfamiliar now."
"Good sign," Ivor said. "If you were going to be sick from the motion, it would've happened by now."
"Thank you for the encouraging image," Soren replied.
Nell laughed softly, the sound bright in the muted room.
They ate in companionable silence for a minute or so, the quiet clatter of cutlery filling the gaps. The crew around them spoke in low voices: fragments of route estimates, maintenance notes, stray jokes. Words washed in and out like gentle waves.
Soren realized, at some point, that no one was staring at him anymore.
The first days, he'd felt new, noticeable—someone whose presence hadn't yet settled into the background. Now, he was simply another uniform at the table. Expected. Accounted for.
The realization was oddly steadying.
Nell finished her soup first, pushing the empty bowl aside and propping her chin on her hand.
"I'm on mid-deck duty after this," she said. "Helping Liora with tension checks. What about you?"
"Reviewing engine correlations," Soren replied. "Everett gave me more logs."
Nell made a small sympathetic noise. "He likes you."
"I'm not sure that's what that means," Soren said.
"It is," she insisted. "He ignores people he doesn't value. Quietly, efficiently, forever." She tilted her head. "If he's giving you extra work, it means he thinks you won't waste the effort."
Soren wasn't certain if that made him feel reassured or nervous.
Ivor reached for a second piece of bread—one of the non-indecent ones. "If you're going to be skulking near the mid-deck later, bring your ledger and stand near the main mast. You pick up more resonance there."
Soren blinked. "You've… noticed that?"
"Of course," Ivor said. "I do more night-shifts than you. The mast sings differently depending on pressure alignment. Good place to train your ear."
Nell looked at Ivor with mock surprise. "Look at you being helpful."
"I prefer the memoirist not missing things that could keep us alive," Ivor replied, unbothered.
Soren inclined his head. "Thank you. I'll try standing there later."
"Do, but don't hover too close to the lines," Nell warned. "Marcell doesn't like people loitering in the way, even if you're officially allowed."
"I'll stay clear," Soren promised.
They finished their meal without hurry. When Soren finally stood, his body felt loose, neither tense nor sluggish. Just settled. Aligned with the Aurelius's pacing.
He gathered his tray and ledger.
"See you mid-deck," Nell said, offering a brief wave.
"Don't fall through anything," Ivor added.
"I'll do my best," Soren replied, and left the mess hall with a faint smile.
___________________________________________________________________________
The transition from the relatively enclosed mess hall to the open mid-deck felt like stepping through a shift in texture.
The air outside was cooler than before, carrying a faint dryness that hinted at a higher altitude. The light had sharpened, brightening the edges of metal and rope. The hum of the engines came more clearly here, the vibrations traveling up through the mast and out along the beams.
Soren made his way toward the central mast structure, careful to stay out of the narrow paths where crew moved with purpose. Liora's voice floated down from the overhead walkway—giving instructions to a pair of deckhands tightening a line.
He stopped at the spot Ivor had mentioned, just off to the side of the mast where he wouldn't obstruct anyone. From here, he could feel the ship more directly—through his shoes, through the rail under his fingertips, through the low, resonant heartbeat of wood and metal.
He closed his eyes and listened.
There was a base note—familiar now—steady engine thrum. Above it, a faint, higher sound: tension in the rigging, taut but not strained. The mast itself vibrated at a slow, even pace.
No irregularities.
No hitch in the pattern.
He opened his eyes and pulled out his ledger, bracing it against his forearm.
|| Engine vibration: stable. Mast resonance: even. Rigging tension within expected range. No abnormal pitch detected.
The words were plain, functional, but they did what they needed to do. This was what Everett meant by structure—by building a shape his mind could rely on.
"You're not in the way there, are you?"
Soren looked up.
Liora stood a few steps above him on the stairway, hair tied up in a loose knot, a wrench tucked through her belt. A stripe of oil marked the back of her hand where she'd pushed stray hair from her brow.
"No," Soren said. "Ivor recommended this spot for listening."
Liora snorted. "Of course he did. He likes the mast. Claims it complains to him first when something's wrong."
"Does it?" Soren asked.
"Sometimes," Liora said. She descended the last few steps to his level and rested one hand against the mast, fingers splayed. "You learn the feel of it after a while. Here—"
She stepped aside slightly and gestured for him to place his palm where hers had been.
Soren did.
The wood under his hand was solid, faintly warm from the morning sun. The vibration that traveled through it was subtle but unmistakable—like leaning against someone's back and feeling their breath without seeing their chest rise.
"Pressure's good today," Liora said. "Not too much strain on the supports. When it's wrong, it feels… tighter. The tone gets sharp, like the ship's grit is catching."
Soren focused, trying to fix this version of "right" in his memory.
"Can you hear differences in the engine room as well?" he asked.
Liora's mouth quirked. "I can. I just don't ask it to sing pretty."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
She eyed his ledger. "Everett roped you into extra cross-referencing, I heard."
"I think 'roped' is the right word," Soren said.
"Good," Liora replied. "If he's giving you more work, it means he thinks you'll do it right. If he ever stops giving you anything, that's when you worry."
"That's what Nell said," Soren murmured.
"Then you're getting consistent data," Liora said, satisfied. "Keep your place there for a bit longer, then move along the deck. The ship won't always talk to you from the same spot."
She headed back up the stairs, voice returning to its earlier command tone as she called down adjustments to the deckhands.
Soren returned his focus to the mast, feeling the steady, even rhythm beneath his palm.
He added another line to his ledger:
|| Mast contact confirms vibration within normal range. Hull strain minimal.
Then he closed it, letting his hand remain on the wood a moment longer before stepping back.
___________________________________________________________________________
The rest of the mid-deck moved around him with unhurried efficiency. Nell appeared a short while later, hauling a coil of rope over one shoulder. She flashed him a quick grin in passing but didn't stop; Liora's instructions had her attention.
Soren stayed out of the way, observing, listening—not just to the ship, but to the cadence of voices. Even reprimands were quiet here. Marcell's voice occasionally cut through with a firm word or two, but there were no barked orders, no needless shouting. Discipline didn't require volume.
It struck Soren that this was what Cassian meant about routine having weight.
It wasn't the repetition itself; it was the alignment.
Everyone knew where to be.
Everyone's movements filled a shape.
And he was part of that shape now, even if his role was mostly to stand, to watch, to write.
He accepted that.
___________________________________________________________________________
When the wind sharpened slightly—nothing more than a cool edge sliding under his collar—Soren recognized it not as a threat, but as a signal: the Aurelius nudging into a slightly different air pocket.
He listened again.
The hum stayed consistent.
The mast remained even.
Only the air itself shifted texture.
He considered writing it down but decided against it; not every small feeling required notation. Cassian had said to distinguish between things that mattered and things that merely changed.
For now, this fell into the second category.
___________________________________________________________________________
Later, when he finally left the mid-deck and returned to the quieter corridor leading to his cabin, Soren's steps fell in easy time with the ship's motion.
He opened his ledger and, before closing it for the morning, added a final, spare entry:
|| Crew operations normal. Mid-deck checks proceeding without issue. No anomalies observed.
The words were simple. Factual. Clean.
He shut the cover and rested his hand on it for a moment.
The stillness of the day wasn't empty.
It had a shape.
And he was learning, slowly, how to trace its outline.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren didn't return to his cabin immediately.
The mid-deck's steady hum lingered beneath his skin, and instead of retreating into the enclosed space of his room, he found himself walking toward the observation corridor—the narrow glass-lined passage on the starboard side that overlooked the open sky.
It was quieter here than anywhere else on the ship.
Most crew passed through only when assigned, but Soren had discovered early on that in the late morning hours, the corridor sat empty, filled only with the vastness outside and the muted heartbeat of the Aurelius.
He stepped inside, boots soft against the wooden walkway, and let himself breathe.
Light poured through the glass in gentle gradients. Wisps of cloud drifted along the ship's side, brushing close before peeling away in slow ribbons. The world outside felt endless, yet not isolating—like being held inside someone else's exhale.
Soren placed a hand lightly against the frame.
Nothing abnormal.
Just the quiet.
A few minutes passed before he realized he was listening not only to the ship, but to his own breathing, matching it unconsciously to the Aurelius's rhythm. It felt… steadying. As though the earlier hours—Everett's notes, the mast, the conversations—had all been sections of a single breath, and now he was finally reaching the exhale.
He opened his ledger again.
|| Observation corridor: stable. No vibration inconsistencies. Airflow normal.
He considered adding something about the clarity of light, the drift of the clouds—but stopped.
Not yet.
Instead, he closed the ledger and held it at his side.
A soft sound approached—measured, rhythmic footsteps, heavier than most. Someone who walked with purpose.
Soren turned slightly.
Atticus Riven entered the corridor.
Not abruptly. Just… distinctly. His presence shifted the air in a subtle way Soren had begun to recognize—not oppressive, not imposing, simply calibrated. As if the captain moved with the ship rather than against it.
He paused upon seeing Soren, though his expression didn't change noticeably.
"Memoirist," he greeted quietly.
"Captain," Soren replied, stepping a little aside to avoid blocking the walkway.
Atticus didn't walk past him.
Instead, he came to stand near the glass, a pace away from Soren—close enough that Soren could feel the faint impression of his presence, but far enough that it felt intentional. Respectful.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Atticus looked outward, eyes tracking the lines of drifting clouds with a steadiness that was almost contemplative. His hands remained clasped behind his back, posture precise but not rigid.
Soren waited, unsure if he should leave or stay.
"You're adjusting," Atticus said at last.
It wasn't a question, but Soren answered anyway.
"I think I'm beginning to understand the routine."
Atticus's gaze remained on the horizon. "Routine exists to steady us. Especially in calm periods."
A beat.
"It is the calm that unsettles new crew the most."
Soren blinked. "The calm?"
"Yes." Atticus shifted his head slightly, enough to catch Soren in his periphery. "Stillness gives the illusion that nothing is happening. That the sky is predictable. But patterns form in silence first. Disruptions follow."
Soren absorbed that.
The captain spoke of the sky the way scholars wrote about tides—measured, aware, without embellishment.
"I don't feel unsettled," Soren said quietly. "Not today."
A faint nod. "Good."
Silence rolled through again, comfortable this time. The Aurelius hummed softly underfoot, as if listening.
Soren risked a glance at Atticus.
The captain looked younger in this light—not softer, but sharpened in a way that emphasized clarity rather than severity. He tracked the sky with an intensity that reminded Soren, unexpectedly, of someone reading a familiar script.
Soren hesitated before asking, "How long have you been flying?"
Atticus didn't take offense at the casual question, but he did give Soren a small, assessing look—as though considering whether the memoirist was asking out of idle curiosity or genuine intent.
"Since I was sixteen," Atticus answered.
Soren's eyebrows lifted before he could stop himself.
"So young?"
"It was necessary," Atticus said simply. Not defensive, not dismissive—just factual.
Soren nodded slowly. "Does the sky ever become predictable to you?"
Atticus exhaled, the faintest sound. "No. But familiarity makes unpredictability survivable."
Soren considered that quietly.
"And you prefer routine."
"I prefer awareness," Atticus corrected. "Routine is a tool. Awareness is a responsibility."
Soren didn't know why, but the distinction mattered.
He looked back out the window, watching a drifting cloud split around the ship's hull.
Atticus's next words came softer.
"Everett says you listen well."
Soren's breath caught—not visibly, he hoped.
"I try to," he said, voice steady.
"Continue," Atticus replied. "The Aurelius values those who pay attention."
Soren wasn't sure whether he imagined it, but the captain's tone felt… not warm, exactly. But not cold either. More like the acknowledgment of a truth rather than praise.
The kind of approval given sparingly.
A quiet shift in the air.
Atticus turned then, preparing to leave. But he paused, just briefly, as he passed Soren.
"Memoirist," he said without looking at him directly, "be cautious on the upper walkways this week. Wind shear may increase."
Soren blinked. "Has the forecast changed?"
"Not yet," Atticus said. "But it will."
And with that, he left the corridor, footsteps fading into the ship's steady hum.
Soren let out a slow breath only when he was alone again.
He closed his eyes, letting the stillness settle back into him.
Then, after a moment, he opened his ledger one more time—not to record anything personal, but to finish the morning entry.
|| No structural anomalies observed. Captain notes potential wind shear; monitoring recommended.
He closed the book gently.
The calm of the day now felt… different.
Not threatened.
Not fragile.
Just alive in a new way.
As though something subtle had shifted shape—nothing dramatic, nothing loud, but something that would matter later.
Soren didn't know what it meant.
But he knew he'd remember this moment.
___________________________________________________________________________