The announcement came as a soft chime through the ship.
Not the meal bell.
Not a shift-change tone.
A different pattern—three notes in descending order, followed by a brief pause.
Soren looked up from his desk, pen hovering over the ledger.
The chime sounded again, echoing faintly through the corridor outside his cabin.
He recognized it now.
He'd heard it once before, several days ago.
Drill.
He set the pen down and closed the ledger with a quiet click.
The Aurelius hummed steadily beneath him. The earlier crosswind from the previous day had softened overnight, but its memory remained in the ship's frame, as if the wood had kept a record of how it had leaned into the pressure.
Soren stood and smoothed the front of his coat, his fingers briefly brushing the fabric where Atticus's warning from yesterday still lived in his mind.
Be mindful, Memoirist.
He stepped into the corridor.
___________________________________________________________________________
The main deck was already filling when Soren arrived.
Crew members moved with purpose—tightening harnesses, checking buckles, securing loose equipment. The air carried that particular tension that wasn't fear but attention, sharpened and directed. The sky above them had the washed-out brightness of late morning, clouds stretched into long, thin streaks as if someone had combed the sky.
Marcell Dayne stood near the central mast, arms folded, watching with an expression that balanced scrutiny and acceptance. Beside him, Cassian Wolfe held a clipboard against one forearm, eyes tracking the readiness of each section.
Atticus was there too, standing slightly apart, coat falling in clean lines, gaze sweeping across the ship with quiet precision.
Soren kept close to the mid-deck stair, not hiding, but not inserting himself into paths he didn't belong in.
"Memoirist," Cassian called, catching sight of him. "Here."
Soren approached.
"Today's drill will include simulated course adjustment under crosswind," Cassian said without preamble. "Your role is to observe engine tone, mast resonance, and deck stability during dynamic shift."
Soren nodded, heart tightening just a little. "From where?"
"The starboard midline for the first half," Cassian said. "Port midline for the second. Stay clear of the forward rails."
The wording echoed Rysen and Marcell's earlier cautions. Stay away from the front. Stay away from the port rail.
Soren inclined his head. "Yes, Scholar-General."
Cassian studied him for a brief moment, as if checking for any sign of lingering unsteadiness from yesterday.
"You've learned the ship's baseline," Cassian said. "Today, you learn how she feels when pushed."
Soren swallowed, but his voice stayed even. "I'll record accurately."
"I expect you to," Cassian replied, then turned to coordinate with Marcell.
The crew began to split into drill positions—rigging teams to the lines, engineering assistants toward the lower hatches, navigation support rotating to Elion's platform. Rysen stood on the mid-deck with his compact medical kit nearby, neither tense nor relaxed, but ready.
Soren watched the arrangement form like a diagram—roles falling into place, lines of responsibility connecting without words.
Then Atticus stepped forward.
"Listen closely," the captain said, voice carrying just enough to reach the entire deck without needing to shout.
Conversation fell away in a smooth wave.
"We will be simulating rapid crosswind gain and minor course correction," Atticus said. "This is not a panic exercise. This is a precision drill."
His eyes moved across the crew.
"The sky does not warn us before shifting," he continued. "We practice so that when it does, the ship is already ready. You will treat this like real adjustment, without unnecessary theatrics. I expect accuracy. I do not expect fear."
A few crew members straightened subtly at that.
Atticus's gaze passed over Soren for a fraction of a second—barely a glance, but clear enough for Soren to feel it.
"Vice-Captain," Atticus said. "Begin on your signal."
Marcell gave a short nod and lifted his hand.
"Positions."
The word rolled through the deck like another kind of bell.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren moved to his assigned place on the starboard midline, just beside a support strut. From here, he could see both the mast and a portion of the horizon, and he could feel the vibrations travel along the planks beneath his boots.
The crew settled into stillness that wasn't idle.
"On my count," Marcell called. "Three. Two. One. Shift."
The change came not in a sudden lurch, but in a smooth, purposeful lean.
The Aurelius angled a few degrees starboard, following Elion's adjustment from the navigation controls. The deck tilted gently under Soren's feet. The ropes pulled taut in new directions. The mast hummed slightly higher, like a string drawn closer to tune.
The wind, which had been brushing along the hull in broad strokes, shifted into a more focused stream on the port side.
Soren braced lightly, knees loose, letting his body move with the ship instead of against it. He pressed two fingers against the support strut and listened.
Hum: deeper, but even.
Mast: steady, vibration aligned.
Deck: no sharp creaks, only the soft, acceptable groan of timber adjusting to new pressure.
He opened his ledger with one hand, writing quickly but cleanly.
|| Drill phase one. Course shifted starboard. Engine tone deepened within expected range. Mast resonance stable.
"Rigging tension?" Marcell's voice carried across the deck.
"Within limit!" Liora called back from her place near the lines.
"Navigation angle?" Marcell asked.
"Holding steady!" Elion replied.
"Medical?"
"Vitals normal," came Rysen's calm response from mid-deck. "No strain signs yet."
The drill held at that angle for several minutes. Atticus walked the deck slowly during the process—not hovering, not correcting every movement, but scanning. Adjusting by sheer presence.
Soren stayed focused on the sound and feel of everything. The longer he listened, the more he could distinguish individual layers in the ship's response—the slightly higher whine from the outer stabilizers, the subtle shift in how the wind wrapped itself around the hull.
Then Marcell's voice came again.
"Return to neutral. Three. Two. One. Reset."
The Aurelius eased back to a straight line, the hum smoothing into its prior balance.
Soren waited for a stray creak, a jolt—anything out of place.
Nothing came.
He wrote:
|| Return to neutral course. No residual strain detected.
His heart was beating a little faster, but not from fear. It was… something sharper. The awareness Cassian had spoken of, perhaps.
"Phase two," Marcell called. "Prepare for port-side simulation."
Soren closed the ledger and shifted position.
___________________________________________________________________________
His new place was along the port midline, closer to the open side of the deck—but still a safe distance from the forward rail. He checked his footing twice, aware of yesterday's embarrassment, of Atticus's gaze finding him after that small stumble.
He would not repeat the mistake.
He would be careful.
Cassian passed behind him, taking up a station near the central mast. Rysen moved a few paces closer to the port side, medical case within reach. Liora adjusted her hold on a set of lines, jaw set with determined focus.
Soren took a breath.
He could feel the air already pressing from starboard—gentle, but persistent.
"Ready," Marcell said.
A brief silence.
The ship held its breath.
"Three. Two. One. Shift."
This time, the angle cut deeper.
The Aurelius leaned into the port adjustment, turning slightly as if to set its shoulder against an invisible current. The wind countered, pressing harder, as though it objected to the motion.
Soren bent his knees, body moving with the tilt. His hand went to the rail—not the outer one, but the inner support—just enough to keep his balance aligned.
The deck thrummed beneath him.
Engine tone: steady, slightly stretched.
Mast: firmer, vibration resonant.
Rigging: tighter, but not stressed.
He listened for the mismatch, the wrongness—but what he found instead was a kind of complex harmony, the ship matching its strength against the sky.
"Hold," Marcell called.
The crew did.
The wind pushed.
The ship refused to flinch.
Soren reached for his ledger, fingers tight but controlled.
|| Phase two. Port shift. Wind resistance increased. Engine compensating within range. No audible strain in frame.
He tucked the book under his arm, needing both hands free now. The angle demanded more attention to stance.
Then, just as he thought the drill had reached its most challenging point—
Someone moved behind him faster than he expected.
___________________________________________________________________________
A deckhand—barely older than Soren, carrying a coil of line—hurried past in response to Liora's sharp instruction. He cut closer to Soren than usual, boots sliding slightly on a patch of salt-damp wood.
Soren heard the catching breath, the shuffle, the near-slip.
Acting on instinct, he stepped back to give the other space.
His heel found the exact edge where two planks met.
The ship tilted just a fraction more with the simulated pressure.
The wind grabbed his coat.
Balance vanished.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing under him but space.
The world tipped.
His stomach lurched.
The sky swung up in front of him.
His free hand flew out searching for an anchor.
Fingers scraped the smooth railing—missed—
The forward edge rushed closer—
And then, his arm caught wood.
His palm slammed hard against the lower rail brace, fingers hooking around it with a sharp jolt of pain.
The angle of his body shifted—half over, half in—and with a desperate pull fueled by nothing more than instinct and will, he dragged himself back onto solid planks.
His knee hit the deck first.
His shoulder followed.
The ledger thumped against his chest, miraculously still tucked beneath his arm.
The wind roared in his ears for a second.
Then settled.
Everything else was very, very quiet.
___________________________________________________________________________
"Soren."
His name, not his title.
Spoken low, but carrying easily through the sudden silence.
Soren forced his head up.
Atticus Riven stood several paces away, halfway between the mid-deck steps and the port line anchoring point. His coat shifted slightly with the wind, but his posture was entirely still.
His expression wasn't angry.
Wasn't panicked.
Wasn't even obviously relieved.
But something in his eyes—
A flicker.
A sharpness.
A brief crack in the usual, controlled surface.
It vanished almost as soon as Soren registered it.
"Get up," Atticus said, voice steady. "Slowly."
Soren pushed himself upright, conscious of every tremor in his limbs. His hand stung where it had struck the rail; a dull, throbbing ache began to bloom across his palm.
"I'm fine," he started, but his voice came out thinner than he intended.
Rysen moved—not running, but swiftly efficient—and reached Soren's side before the sentence finished.
"Let me see," Rysen said quietly.
"I'm alright," Soren tried again.
Rysen lifted a hand, palm outward. "Don't argue while your legs are still catching up to the deck."
The logic of that was hard to oppose.
Soren opened his hand.
Redness had already risen across the skin, a faint swelling at the base of his thumb where bone had met wood. No broken skin, just blunt impact.
Rysen's thumb brushed carefully along the edge of the bruise, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to test.
"Nothing broken," he said. "You'll be sore. You'll live."
There was an almost imperceptible softening in his tone at the last part.
Soren exhaled slowly. "It was my fault. I stepped back too fast."
Rysen glanced at him. "You moved to avoid a collision. It happens. Just remember that the deck isn't flat in moments like this. It's thinking."
Soren's gaze dropped. "I should have anticipated the edge."
"You will next time," Rysen said calmly. "That's why this is a drill."
Around them, the crew began to move again in soft ripples. The frozen moment thawed; Liora returned to her lines, Marcell's attention shifted toward final adjustments, and the deckhand who had nearly collided with Soren retreated a little, face pale, lips pressed tight.
Soren caught the other boy's eye for a second. There was guilt there—apology written in the tautness of his shoulders.
Soren gave a tiny shake of his head. Not your fault.
The boy's shoulders sagged with unspoken relief.
___________________________________________________________________________
"Return to neutral," Marcell called, voice smoother now. "Three. Two. One. Reset."
The Aurelius unleaned, leveling out once more.
The pressure shifted back into balance.
The wind loosened its angled push.
Soren felt the deck flatten beneath his boots, but his heartbeat hadn't yet quite matched the ship's return to calm.
Atticus stepped closer—not closing the distance entirely, but enough that Soren could feel the weight of his presence.
"Memoirist," Atticus said, tone even. "Report."
It took Soren a second to realize the captain wasn't asking about the slip. He was asking for the drill's observations.
Soren straightened, ignoring the ache in his hand.
"Port shift increased wind resistance," he recited. "Engine compensated without irregular strain. Mast resonance remained within safe range. No audible anomalies in hull, only reactive creaks at expected joints."
Atticus studied him as he spoke, assessing not just the words but the steadiness behind them.
"What about your balance?" Atticus asked quietly.
Soren forced himself not to look away. "I misjudged my footing in response to a secondary movement, Captain. It won't happen again."
A long, measured pause.
The wind brushed between them, gentler now.
"See that it doesn't," Atticus said. No harshness. No raised volume. Just an iron line of expectation, edged with something Soren couldn't quite name.
Concern, perhaps.
Or the echo of it.
"Yes, Captain," Soren replied.
Atticus held his gaze for one more second, then nodded.
"Vice-Captain," he called, turning away. "Log completion of drill. Maintain adjusted heading for one more cycle, then revert."
"Yes, Captain," Marcell answered.
The crew dispersed back into their duties, tension slowly unspooling.
Rysen lingered only long enough to press a small folded cloth into Soren's uninjured hand.
"For the swelling later," he said. "Cold water. Wrap once the sting settles."
Soren accepted it carefully. "Thank you."
Rysen's gaze softened. "You didn't fall," he said quietly. "That matters."
Then he moved on, called elsewhere.
___________________________________________________________________________
When the deck had settled, and his pulse finally matched the ship's rhythm again, Soren found a quieter spot near the inner rail to open his ledger.
His bruised hand protested the motion, but he wrote anyway, keeping his strokes controlled.
|| Drill completed. Simulated starboard and port crosswind adjustment. Engine, mast, and hull reactions within acceptable range. Noted increased crosswind resistance on port side. Minor personal misstep due to altered deck angle—no injury beyond superficial impact.
He paused, then added:
|| Recommend continued observation of wind pattern behavior at similar altitudes.
He closed the ledger with care, hand resting on its cover.
The drill was over.
The ship was calm again.
But something in the feel of the day had changed.
The sky had pushed.
He had nearly slipped.
The captain had called his name.
And the Aurelius, steady and unshaken, sailed on as if inviting him to pay closer attention next time.
___________________________________________________________________________
The deck slowly returned to its rhythm after the drill—ropes coiled, equipment stowed, crew moving into new tasks as if nothing unusual had occurred. Yet beneath the routine, something lingered, a thin thread of awareness woven through the ship's frame.
Soren stepped away from the midline, flexing his bruised hand. The ache settled into a deep, muted throb, not sharp, but persistent enough to remind him of how close he'd come to losing balance again.
He wondered—briefly—if Atticus had arrived at that exact moment by coincidence.
No.
Coincidence wasn't a thing the crew associated with Atticus Riven.
Not in matters concerning the sky.
Not in matters concerning the ship.
Soren inhaled slowly, letting the cold air settle in his lungs.
The Aurelius felt different now.
Not unstable—just attentive, as though the ship had absorbed the drill the way a body absorbs impact: quietly cataloging each shift, each lean, each pattern of pressure.
He closed his eyes and listened.
The engine hum retained its center.
The mast hummed a fraction deeper.
The deck timbers felt awake beneath his boots.
He opened his eyes again and resumed walking, letting the ship's living quiet wrap around him.
As he approached the navigation platform, Elion leaned over the railing, her hair escaping its tie after the drill. She waved him up with an easy arm gesture.
"You survived," she said as he climbed the steps.
Soren blinked. "I wasn't dying."
"No," she said with a grin. "But you looked like you thought you might be."
He flushed faintly. "It was just a misstep."
"Elion," Cassian called from below, not looking up.
"Do not bully the memoirist."
She snorted. "That wasn't bullying. That was friendly teasing."
"Friendly teasing becomes hostile teasing if you're not careful," Cassian replied, still writing on his clipboard.
Elion rolled her eyes at Soren, who hid a tiny smile.
Then her expression softened.
"Seriously, though," she said, leaning one elbow on the railing, "you handled it better than most first-timers. The wind can be unpredictable when the ship is angled."
"I should've anticipated the deck shift," Soren murmured.
"Maybe," Elion said thoughtfully. "But you adjusted. That's what matters. The Aurelius doesn't like people who freeze."
Soren glanced toward the port rail again—the place where he'd nearly lost his footing. The memory still felt too vivid, the feeling of air rushing under him too clear.
Elion followed his gaze.
"He saw you, you know," she said quietly.
"Who?"
"Elion," Cassian warned from below.
"You can't warn me after I already said it," she shot back.
Cassian exhaled heavily.
Soren swallowed. "The captain?"
Elion nodded. "He doesn't usually intervene during drills unless something's about to go wrong."
Soren stiffened. "It wasn't that serious."
"Not serious now," she replied softly. "But one wrong angle, and the wind could've tipped you off-balance harder."
Soren hesitated. "Do you think he…?"
"Noticed?" Elion said. "He notices everything."
She pushed off the railing and straightened her charts. "Anyway, if he looked like he wanted to say more, that's… normal."
"Normal?"
"Yes," she said, flicking a glance toward where Atticus stood speaking with Marcell. "He talks more with his eyes than his mouth. And whenever someone's learning, he watches. That's how he learned too."
Soren didn't fully know what to do with that.
Elion smiled again, softer this time. "You're fine, Soren. Don't think yourself into a knot."
He nodded slowly.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren descended the stairs, intending to walk the deck again for additional observation notes. But Rysen intercepted him at the base before he could take three steps.
"You're favoring your left."
The medic's tone was mild, but his eyes were sharp.
Soren froze mid-step. "I'm not—"
Rysen raised an eyebrow.
Soren shut his mouth.
"Hand," Rysen said simply.
Soren hesitated, then extended his bruised hand again. Rysen took it gently, turning it palm-up. His touch was cool and precise, fingertips pressing lightly across the swelling.
"Still tender?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good," Rysen said.
Soren blinked. "Good?"
"It means you didn't damage the joint. You only bruised the soft tissue." Rysen allowed the faintest smile. "If it didn't hurt, I'd be more concerned."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small tin marked with an inked symbol—something between a leaf and a spiral.
"Salve," he explained, placing it into Soren's uninjured hand. "Use it in two hours. Only a thin layer."
"You don't have to—"
"I do," Rysen cut in softly. "This is my job. And you are part of the crew."
Soren's breath caught—not visibly, but enough that he felt it in his ribs.
Rysen released his bruised hand carefully.
"Don't make it worse," he added. "And stay out of crosswind pressure angles for the rest of the day."
"I wasn't planning to go near the rails again," Soren said quietly.
Rysen's eyes softened in a way that felt almost private.
"Good."
Then he walked away, coat fluttering lightly behind him.
___________________________________________________________________________
The deck emptied gradually as crew returned to assignments. Soren remained on the starboard side, near the inner railing, moving slowly and listening.
Something about the air had changed again—subtly, but undeniably.
The wind no longer pushed in angled bursts.
The cloud layers no longer drifted in long diagonal streaks.
Instead, they hovered in an irregular pattern, shifting in small, uncertain movements like breaths caught between two decisions.
Soren pressed his palm lightly to the rail.
The vibration beneath was even.
But the air pressure felt faintly uneven in tiny, pulsing waves.
Not alarming.
Not dangerous.
But wrong in a way he couldn't articulate yet.
He opened his ledger, writing with care:
|| Post-drill observation: wind pressure irregular. Not from sky-plane shift. Possibly residual atmospheric layering. Engine hum stable.
He paused.
Above him, a flicker of movement caught his eye.
Atticus was standing on the higher walkway now, one hand resting on the railing, his posture perfectly aligned with the deck's tilt. His eyes were fixed on the sky—not in concern, but in concentration.
Soren watched him for a moment.
Atticus was not unmoved by the shift.
He was studying it.
Reading it.
His gaze flicked downward once—and Soren wasn't sure if Atticus saw him or simply looked through the deck in general observation. But the moment made Soren straighten unconsciously.
The captain's attention meant something.
Even when it said nothing aloud.
___________________________________________________________________________
Cassian approached quietly, stopping beside Soren without ceremony.
"You felt it," Cassian said.
Soren didn't pretend otherwise. "Yes. The pressure shifted again."
Cassian nodded once. "The sky is in transition today."
"From what?" Soren asked.
Cassian's eyes followed the irregular cloud movement.
"From steady to uncertain."
Soren's throat tightened. "Should we be worried?"
"No," Cassian said. "Not yet. It's an early sign, not a threat. The sky breathes like we do—sometimes deeper, sometimes uneven."
He paused. "Today, it is thinking."
Soren blinked. "Thinking?"
Cassian's expression softened with something like mild amusement. "That's the closest human word for it."
He stepped closer to the rail, fingers brushing lightly across the wood.
"You did well during the drill," Cassian added.
Soren blinked. "Even though I nearly—?"
"You corrected yourself," Cassian said simply. "Correction is more important than perfection. The ship trusts those who adjust."
Soren let out a slow breath.
Cassian gave a small nod, then moved toward the central mast again, leaving Soren alone with the shifting sky.
___________________________________________________________________________
The wind paused for a moment—perfectly still, as if the world inhaled.
Then a very faint, nearly imperceptible sound slid through the air.
Not a creak.
Not a groan.
Not a strain.
Just a whisper.
Like a sigh pressed through distance.
Soren froze.
The Aurelius did not react.
The crew did not react.
Only Soren heard it.
He touched the railing again, heart tightening—but the hum remained unchanged.
The whisper didn't repeat.
Perhaps he imagined it.
Or perhaps he was beginning to hear something he wasn't meant to understand yet.
He lifted the ledger once more.
|| Momentary wind stillness. No structural response. Faint auditory impression—unconfirmed.
He closed the book gently.
The sky had stopped leaning, but something was undeniably different now.
The day felt like a held breath—quiet, stretched thin, as if waiting.
And Soren knew, without knowing why:
This was the first step away from the comfort of routine.
Not danger.
Not disaster.
Just the beginning of the world shifting its weight.
___________________________________________________________________________