Dawn did not arrive.
It should have—
Soren knew the timing, knew when the faintest grey should've begun threading into the sky—
but instead, the dark remained, softened only by the Aurelius's lanterns, which flickered in small, watchful halos.
The ship was steady.
The sky was not.
Soren stood at the midline once more, feeling the planks under his boots as if they were part of his own balance. After the drift, the hum had returned to normal, but the air held a faint aftertaste—electric, thin, and strangely hollow.
He had slept only briefly, curled on the narrow bunk allotted to him. It wasn't discomfort that kept him from deeper rest—it was the drift's echo. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the ripple passing through the frame, the invisible pressure shifting, like something vast had brushed past the ship without truly touching it.
When the bell rang for morning rotation, he rose, straightened his coat, and returned to the deck.
He wasn't late.
But he wasn't early either.
Rysen was already up, checking the pulse and breathing of a young deckhand who'd gotten dizzy during the night shift. His calm voice carried through the chilly air.
"Breathe slow. The pressure drop hit harder for some of you."
The deckhand nodded, pale but steady.
Liora was tightening a series of knots near the rigging. Even from afar, Soren could see the faint tremor in her fingers—not fear, but the lingering strain of adjusting lines during a drift.
Nell was near the starboard side again, kneeling as she inspected rope hooks one by one. She hummed quietly under her breath, something soft and tuneless, grounding herself in familiar tasks.
And on the bow—
Atticus.
Soren didn't need to see him directly to know where he stood. There was a stillness around the captain that shaped the air, like gravity finding its center. He faced the same direction as last night: toward the horizon, toward the dark that refused to lighten.
Soren crossed the deck with measured steps.
Every few paces, he paused—not out of hesitation, but to listen. The ship's hum was softer this morning, a little worn around the edges, as if she had strained muscles invisible to the eye.
He reached the bow.
Atticus didn't turn.
But the shift in his posture—the faint relaxing of one shoulder—told Soren he'd been acknowledged.
"Good morning, Captain," Soren said quietly.
"It will be," Atticus replied, "when the sky allows it."
Soren followed his gaze.
Nothing moved.
The air was neither storming nor calm.
It simply held—like a held breath unwilling to release.
He opened his ledger.
"Shall I begin the morning log?" he asked.
Atticus spoke without looking away.
"Record the absence of dawn."
Soren hesitated only a beat before writing:
|| Expected sunrise did not manifest. Sky retains pre-dawn opacity. Horizon visibility—unchanged. Ambient pressure—stable but heavy.
He glanced upward again.
"What does it mean?" he asked softly.
Atticus answered with equal softness.
"Drifts distort time illumination. Light bends differently."
"Bends… how?"
"Not evenly," Atticus said. "Not reliably."
Soren felt a quiet chill move through him.
"So this is normal?" he asked—though he knew by now that the captain rarely accepted that word as fact.
"It has precedent," Atticus said. "But it is rare for the first drift of a cycle."
"So the next one will be stronger," Soren murmured.
Atticus didn't confirm.
He didn't need to.
Soren felt it too.
___________________________________________________________________________
Cassian Wolfe arrived on deck with his coat half-buttoned and his hair pulled back in a barely successful knot. He moved with precision but also irritation—at the sky, at the drift, at physics in general.
"Captain," he called, "the calculations match neither yesterday nor the drift's normal parameters."
Atticus didn't move. "Explain."
Cassian snapped open a thin weatherboard covered in measured lines.
"The stabilization after the drift was too fast," he said. "And the pressure drop lasted too long. The timing is off. This drift cycle is fragmented."
Soren blinked. "Fragmented?"
Cassian turned to him, brows raised.
"Imagine ripping cloth," he said. "Not one tear. Several small ones."
"That sounds—bad."
"For tailwinds, yes," Cassian replied. "For stability, not entirely. But for predictability—terrible."
Soren nodded, absorbing that.
Cassian pushed a hand through his hair, sighing into the cold air. "I'll be revising the mapping for hours."
"You will," Atticus agreed.
Cassian huffed but didn't argue. "I'll bring you the updates."
As he walked away, Soren heard him muttering:
"Drift cycles behaving like apprentices—never a good sign…"
___________________________________________________________________________
After Cassian left, Atticus finally spoke again.
"Listen."
Soren did.
It wasn't the hum.
The hum was normal.
This was something else.
A faint, thin ringing—barely there, like a memory of sound more than sound itself.
Soren frowned. "The… ringing?"
Atticus inclined his head. "You hear it."
"It's extremely faint."
"Yes."
"Is it structural?" Soren asked.
"No," Atticus said softly. "It's atmospheric."
Soren blinked. "The sky is ringing?"
"No," Atticus said, "the sky is listening."
Soren's breath caught.
He wasn't sure he wanted to understand—but he understood enough to feel the weight of it.
"What do we do?"
"Watch," Atticus said. "Record."
He paused.
"And stand steady."
___________________________________________________________________________
Everett Caelum finally emerged from belowdeck, carrying three separate log sheets under one arm. His expression was sharper than usual—collected, but shadowed with concern.
"Captain," he said, "I've charted the vibration wave left from the drift."
"Findings?" Atticus asked.
Everett handed him the top sheet.
"The ship absorbed more of the drift than expected."
Atticus's eyes narrowed. "How much more?"
"Approximately fourteen percent."
Soren blinked. "Is that significant?"
"For a vessel this size," Everett replied, "it's unprecedented without visible strain."
Soren's pulse hitched.
"But she didn't strain," he said. "I didn't feel any structural resistance."
"That," Everett said, "is the issue."
Atticus folded the sheet neatly.
"She's compensating," he said quietly. "But compensating for what?"
Everett didn't answer.
No one did.
The sky remained stubbornly dark.
___________________________________________________________________________
For several breaths, the captain remained silent.
Then he turned—not fully, but enough that Soren saw his expression sharpen with intent.
"Memoirist," Atticus said.
Soren straightened. "Yes, Captain?"
"You will stay with me through the next drift."
Soren blinked. "Next—?"
"It will come," Atticus said. "Soon. And I need your precision."
Heat rose unexpectedly to Soren's cheeks. "Of course, Captain. I'll—stay ready."
Atticus held his gaze for a moment longer than usual.
"Good."
It wasn't just approval.
It was something steadier—
something that settled into Soren's ribcage, warm and unexpected.
___________________________________________________________________________
A quiet breeze drifted across the bow.
A nearby lantern flickered once—
twice—
then steadied.
Soren frowned. "Captain… is that—"
"Yes," Atticus said. "The sky is shifting again."
Soren felt his breath tighten.
The next drift was coming.
Not hours from now—
not later—
but soon.
He opened his ledger. His hands no longer trembled at the unknown. They steadied around ink and paper like a ritual, like anchoring himself to the only clear role he had on a ship full of people who understood the sky far better than he did.
Atticus watched the horizon.
Soren watched the captain.
And the ship listened to both.
The air thinned again.
The hum pressed lower.
And the sky—
the sky leaned.
___________________________________________________________________________
The lantern's flicker didn't settle.
It steadied for a heartbeat—
then faltered again, its flame bowing sideways as if something unseen brushed past it.
Soren's fingers tightened around the ledger.
Atticus stepped closer to the rail, the faint shift in his coat signaling his full attention locking on the horizon.
"Captain," Soren murmured, "the air feels… thinner."
"Yes," Atticus replied.
No hesitation.
No softening.
Just fact.
Wind, when it came, did not come from a sensible direction. It whispered against Soren's left cheek, then against his right shoulder, then from behind, but each gust was too soft to be felt as movement—only as temperature.
A quiet drop in warmth.
A prickle along the skin.
Soren swallowed.
"The drift is aligning," Atticus said.
He didn't raise his voice, but the words carried enough weight that nearby crew turned instinctively toward him.
Liora left the rigging and approached Marcell, tone low but urgent.
"Rigging stable, but we should secure auxiliary lines."
"Already on it," Marcell replied, signaling the nearest deckhands.
Nell stood, abandoning her half-checked hooks, and hurried to help secure the lower tension cords. Even she—normally soft and calm—moved with the deliberate alertness of someone who understood the gravity of the moment.
Rysen left the mast, medical bag already slung over his shoulder.
Cassian rushed up from belowdeck with a handful of calculation sheets, hair now fully disheveled and frustration radiating from him.
"Captain," he called, breath shallow. "The drift path is—Captain, it's splitting."
Atticus turned. "Explain."
Cassian shoved the sheets forward, nearly slapping them against the railing in his urgency.
"It's not singular," he said. "It's bifurcated. Two separate atmospheric shifts are happening at once, converging on the same altitude. That's why the first drift felt fragmented."
Soren blinked. "Two drifts?"
"No," Cassian snapped—then caught himself, tone lowering with effort. "Two veins of the same drift. They should not overlap. They aren't meant to. But they are."
Everett emerged behind Cassian, calm as always, although his jaw was set tensely.
"The ship compensated for only one path," Everett said. "If the second crosses us—"
"It won't cross," Atticus said.
Everyone fell silent.
Atticus rarely made absolute statements.
When he did, they weren't predictions.
They were decisions.
Soren felt that certainty settle in him like a weight and a breath at once.
___________________________________________________________________________
The lanterns flickered a third time.
Then the hum beneath the deck shifted—not downward like before, but sideways, as though the vibration slid along the planks rather than through them.
Soren inhaled sharply.
His balance wavered, not from motion, but from the sudden recalibration of the air. It felt as if the floor had taken a half-step in a direction he couldn't see.
"Marcell," Atticus said. "Report."
Marcell tested the nearest line, muscles coiling in readiness. "Rigging is resisting a lateral pull."
"Compensate," Atticus said.
"Aye."
Liora tightened the crosslines while two deckhands secured the nearest belay hooks.
Everett braced his hands on the railing, eyes narrowing. "Even the frames are redirecting their absorption."
Soren took a slow breath, grounding himself.
Then he felt something.
A faint vibration along the rail.
Not the hum.
Not the drift pulse.
A subtle tremor that felt like a warning.
He froze.
"Captain?" he called softly.
Atticus turned immediately.
Soren touched the rail lightly. "Do you feel that?"
Atticus placed his hand against the same spot.
The pulse shivered once—
a small, fine tremor, like the faintest pluck of a string.
Then silence.
Atticus's eyes sharpened. "She's bracing early."
"She?" Soren echoed.
"The Aurelius."
Soren's chest tightened, not in fear but in recognition.
Yes.
That was exactly what it felt like.
The ship was preparing—aligning her weight, adjusting her posture, the way a living creature braces for impact.
Cassian muttered something into his palm, then spoke louder.
"Captain, if both drift veins converge now, the sky is going to—"
He didn't finish.
No one did.
Because the world shifted.
___________________________________________________________________________
This time, the drift didn't shudder.
It rolled.
A smooth, low sweep of pressure unfurling across the deck, like a long tide pulling and releasing at the same time.
Soren grabbed the rail, breath catching.
The sky overhead rippled—
not visibly,
but perceptibly.
The darkness folded in faint, impossible lines, like the horizon had exhaled in patterns too large to perceive fully.
Rysen braced a hand on the mast. "Pressure drop—sharp. Twice as strong as the first."
Liora gripped a rope, heels digging into the planks. "Tension rising!"
Everett's eyes flicked rapidly as he tracked vibrations through instinct more than sound. "Frame absorption is off-balance—starboard tilt by two degrees!"
Atticus didn't move.
He stood like a stone, grounded, precise, waiting for the moment the ship needed him.
"Hold," he said.
The word cut through the rising noise of straining ropes and thinning wind.
Soren's heartbeat thudded against his ribs as the pressure tightened around his ears. He felt the air pushing, compressing, trying to reshape itself.
The ship strained—
just a little—
just enough that Soren felt the pressure along the rail shift under his hand.
Atticus spoke again, calm but firm.
"Let her read it."
Cassian hissed under his breath. "If she reads this wrong—"
"She won't," Atticus said.
Soren watched the captain's profile—
the absolute certainty carved into it.
Somehow, impossibly, the Aurelius responded.
The frame eased.
The tilt corrected.
The ship stopped resisting and aligned with the pull—
—just as the second pulse hit.
This one wasn't a roll.
It was a fold.
The sky pressed down in a long, sweeping arc—
an invisible curve that flattened the air at their backs and stretched it thinner at their front.
Soren gasped as the pressure shifted sharply across his chest.
Atticus's hand shot out—
not touching him,
but steadying into the space just beside him, creating an anchor point in the disorientation.
"Breathe," Atticus said low.
Soren did.
The drift pulse passed—
slowly—
deeply—
like the air was being pulled through the eye of a needle.
The ship creaked, but didn't bow.
She held.
The pressure eased.
Soren exhaled hard, vision swimming for a moment.
Atticus lowered his hand, but his gaze remained fixed on Soren just long enough to be sure he was steady.
Only then did the captain return his attention to the horizon.
___________________________________________________________________________
The world did not immediately stabilize.
No, the drift's aftermath came in layers—
small adjustments of air density,
the faint settling of the hum,
a residual pull fading gradually.
Nell wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve, eyes wide. "Is… that it?"
"For the moment," Everett said.
Cassian blew out a breath. "If the next one stacks this poorly on the last, the sky's coordination is collapsing."
Marcell tightened the final line and stepped back, his shoulders relaxing marginally. "Rigging's holding."
Rysen checked the nearest crew member, then glanced toward Soren.
"You're pale."
Soren gave a strained, embarrassed smile. "Just… dizzy."
"Normal," Rysen said. "The second drift compressed differently."
He touched Soren's wrist lightly, counting under his breath.
"Pulse elevated, but not dangerously. Drink later."
"Yes, Doctor."
Rysen moved again, but not before giving Atticus a pointed look—as if silently confirming Soren is fine.
Atticus acknowledged the look with a subtle nod.
Only then did he speak.
"Memoirist."
Soren straightened. "Captain?"
"Record."
Soren opened the ledger, ink trembling slightly against the page.
|| Second drift onset. Atmospheric shift rolled rather than struck. Two pressures converging. Ship braced early. Captain permitted frame alignment. Drift pulse folded downward. Response—stabilized.
He hesitated.
Then added, carefully:
|| Personal observation: Sky behavior inconsistent with standard mapping. Ship adjusted intentionally.
He capped the ink.
Atticus watched him for a moment—
quiet, unreadable,
but approving.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried not tension, but command.
"Prepare for the next shift."
Soren blinked. "There's… another?"
"Yes," Atticus said.
And the sky, as if agreeing, pulsed faintly overhead.
___________________________________________________________________________