The morning came grey and cold. Not the brisk cold of altitude or the crisp chill after rain—
This was a denser cold, the kind that settled beneath the skin like unspoken tension.
Soren woke before the first bell, staring into the dim ceiling of his cabin.
His body felt… off.
Not ill.
Not injured.
Just—heavy, as if something unseen had pressed against him through the night and left an imprint in his bones.
He swung his legs out of bed and sat for a long moment, waiting for the faint dizziness to pass. It wasn't the drift echo. That sensation had been sharp, ringing. This was softer, almost gentle in its wrongness.
The sky replayed my steps, he thought.
And suddenly he understood what Rysen meant when he said:
"Try not to snap in the middle."
He splashed his face with cold water, steadied his breathing, and forced himself into the corridor.
That was when he realized:
The hum was different.
Not louder.
Not deeper.
Just more present—like the Aurelius had tuned herself tighter overnight.
Soren placed a hand against the wall.
The vibration met him instantly, warm against his fingertips.
"Good morning," he murmured without thinking.
The hum shifted—almost like it responded.
He paused.
"Not ominous at all," he muttered to himself.
Then headed toward mid deck.
________________________
The corridor lanterns swayed faintly as Soren passed. Not unusual.
But the flames?
They didn't flicker with the breeze.
They flickered with his footsteps.
He took a step.
The flames leaned.
Another step.
Another lean.
Soren stopped abruptly.
The lanterns steadied.
"…No."
He took two steps backward.
The flames leaned back.
"Absolutely not," he whispered.
A quiet, amused voice came from behind him.
"Doing morning experiments alone, Memoirist?"
Soren turned to find Nell leaning against the doorway to the mess hall, arms crossed, hair tied messily, still chewing the last of a biscuit. She lifted a brow at the lanterns.
"They flirting with you now?"
"They're echoing movement patterns," Soren corrected automatically. "It's not—"
He gestured vaguely.
"It's not personal."
"Mm," Nell said, unimpressed. "Well, it's creepy. So there's that."
She stepped closer, squinting at him.
"You look tired," she noted softly. "Did you sleep?"
"I think so."
"You think?"
Her tone carried a quiet concern that made something warm press against his ribs.
Soren exhaled, adjusting his coat.
"I'm all right," he said. "Just… adjusting."
"Sure," Nell said. "But if you drop dead, I'm stealing your boots. They look warm."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said dryly.
She grinned, bumping her shoulder lightly against his arm before heading down the corridor.
The lantern flames stilled as she passed.
Soren wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.
________________________
The sky outside was soft and pale, the sun still low on the horizon. Clouds drifted lazily, in long streaks of silver-white. Nothing threatening at first glance.
Yet the deck held a different energy.
Crew moved with purposeful caution, the kind that came from knowing the sky had begun paying a little too much attention.
Elion stood at the helm, tapping her fingers against the map table in a staccato rhythm that betrayed her nerves. Marcell paced across the midline, jaw set. Everett emerged from below deck with a stack of instruments, looking as though he hadn't slept at all.
Soren approached.
Marcell noticed him first.
"Morning, Memoirist. You're late."
Soren blinked. He wasn't late.
Unless…
The sky had shifted time rhythm without him noticing.
"I—apologies," he said. "I thought the bell hadn't rung yet."
"It rang," Marcell said. "Twice."
Elion turned her head sharply. "Did you sleep through the bells?"
"No," Soren said truthfully. "I didn't hear them."
Elion's gaze sharpened.
Everett paused.
Marcell swore under his breath.
Before anyone could question further, a voice came from the upper walkway:
"Report."
Atticus.
As always, he moved with a strange blend of economy and gravity—sharp lines, controlled energy. He descended the steps, his gaze already scanning the deck.
When his eyes met Soren's, something in the captain's expression tightened.
He approached.
"You missed the bells," he stated.
Soren forced himself to meet the gaze.
"I didn't hear them," he admitted.
Atticus's eyes flicked toward Everett instantly.
Everett stepped forward. "Captain, if I may—this could be related to the night's resonance shift."
Atticus's jaw clenched faintly. "Explain."
Everett lifted one of his instruments, its thin copper rods trembling slightly in the morning air.
"The ship absorbed a stronger resonance pattern last night," Everett said. "It may have affected proximity perception—particularly for someone the sky is already… studying."
Soren felt his stomach drop.
"So the sky heard the bells," Soren said quietly, "but I didn't."
Everett nodded grimly.
"But why?" Soren asked.
Before Everett could answer, Atticus stepped closer—so close the waking sun cast both of their shadows into one shape on the deck planks.
"Because," Atticus said, voice low and controlled, "you are becoming part of the pattern it studies. And it may be trying to isolate what it wants to learn."
Soren inhaled sharply.
Isolate.
Isolation meant pressure.
Pressure meant risk.
Atticus didn't look away from him.
"You will not be unaccompanied," Atticus said firmly. "Not today. Not until this passes."
Soren nodded, throat tight.
The wind brushed past him—so gentle it felt almost apologetic.
__________________________
A creak sounded beneath the starboard walkway.
Not the ordinary complaint of wood.
A shift.
A deep, brief vibration—like the hull exhaling in a strange rhythm.
Marcell turned sharply.
Elion froze mid-word.
Everett nearly dropped his instrument.
Atticus moved first.
He crossed the deck in three decisive steps, Soren on his heels.
"Sound location?" Atticus asked sharply.
"Below storage two," Marcell said. "But the echo traveled wrong."
"Wrong how?" Atticus pressed.
Everett answered: "It… didn't travel outward. It traveled inward."
Soren felt a chill rise up his spine.
He crouched beside Atticus and placed his hand against the beam.
The hum welcomed him instantly—warm, steady.
But layered beneath it was something new.
A faint rhythm that didn't belong to the engine or sky currents.
Atticus noticed his reaction.
"Soren."
He didn't look up.
He pressed his palm harder.
"It's… a pulse," Soren whispered. "Not mechanical. Not sky-made. It's like—like something beneath the hull is echoing the ship's heartbeat."
"That's impossible," Elion said tightly.
"No," Everett said quietly. "Not after what we've observed the last two days."
Atticus lowered himself to the beam as well, his arm brushing Soren's as they both listened.
The pulse was faint.
But real.
Once…
Twice…
Thrice…
Then silence.
Soren swallowed.
"It stopped when we touched it," he said.
Atticus straightened slowly.
"We continue with caution," he ordered. "No assumptions. No panic. And absolutely no one wanders alone."
His gaze returned to Soren.
"You stay within my sight."
Soren nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
Atticus's eyes softened a fraction—just enough for Soren to see the awareness there. The understanding.
The worry he didn't voice.
_______________________
Soren had no time to return to his cabin. Instead, Atticus directed him to write under the shelter of the helm awning, where he could be observed.
He opened the ledger.
His hand trembled once—just once—before he steadied it.
|| Morning after sky replay event.
|| Auditory perception altered. Missed ship bells; others reported normal range.
|| Lantern response continues to echo movement patterns.
|| New anomaly: internal hull pulse beneath storage two. Echoed ship hum briefly, then ceased upon contact.
He paused.
Then added:
|| Captain is concerned. The sky is not only learning us—it is beginning to interact with the ship's internal structure.
Soren's breath hitched.
He forced his hand to continue.
|| If the ship is learning me, and the sky is learning the ship—
|| then something between them is forming a link I do not understand yet.
He lifted his head.
Atticus was standing at the helm, giving orders sharply but with unusual restraint—as though holding the crew steady required every ounce of his control.
The wind curled around the walkway.
Not cold.
Not hostile.
Watching.
Soren closed his ledger.
The day had only just begun.
And the sky was remembering more than he intended to teach it.
_________________________
The pulse didn't return immediately.
For nearly an hour, the ship held steady—rigging whispering, clouds sliding past, crew moving with careful confidence. The kind of hour that made people wonder if they'd simply imagined the earlier anomaly.
But Soren hadn't imagined it.
He still felt the echo of that strange rhythm in his bones.
And the sky…
The sky still watched him.
From high, thin currents, from the shifting temperature gradients, from the faint pressure changes that kissed the back of his neck.
Waiting.
Not acting.
But waiting.
_________________________
Atticus didn't leave him alone.
Not for a second.
When Soren walked the midline, Atticus remained a few steps behind.
When Soren paused near the helm, Atticus redirected crew to give them room.
When Soren leaned over a section of railing to listen to the hum, Atticus's presence moved closer—not touching, but unmistakably anchoring him.
It was not suffocating.
It was… deliberate.
Measured.
Protective, in a way that cloaked itself behind duty.
At one point, Elion whispered to Everett under her breath:
"He's guarding him."
Everett replied:
"No. He's counterbalancing him."
Soren pretended not to hear either.
_________________________
It happened near midday.
Soren was kneeling near the midline rail, copying faint vibration variations into his ledger. Atticus was beside him, arms folded, gaze sharp but distant in thought.
The wind brushed across the deck—not strong, but present.
Then—
A sound.
A faint thunk deep beneath the planks.
Followed by another.
Not knocks.
Not creaks.
Three pulses.
Measured.
Calm.
Soren froze.
Atticus's head snapped downwards.
"Again?" Soren whispered.
Atticus didn't answer.
Because the pulse repeated.
Thrum.
Thrum.
Thrum.
Soren leaned forward instinctively, hand pressed to the beam.
Atticus reached out and grabbed his shoulder—not stopping him, but steadying him.
The hum of the ship swelled beneath Soren's palm.
And then—
The pulse responded.
Not randomly.
Not blindly.
It matched the rhythm of Soren's heartbeat.
Soren's breath left him in a shaky exhale.
"Captain," he whispered. "It's mimicking—"
"I know," Atticus murmured.
He didn't remove his hand from Soren's shoulder.
If anything, his grip tightened.
Below the deck, the pulse quickened—just slightly—each beat syncing closer, closer, until Soren could no longer tell where his heartbeat ended and the ship's strange echo began.
"I don't…" Soren swallowed. "I don't like this."
"I know," Atticus repeated quietly.
His voice was calm—but his stance was not.
The captain angled himself subtly between Soren and the source of the pulse, protective without making a spectacle. His presence grounded the space around them, drawing a boundary the ship seemed to respect.
For three long heartbeats, the pulse continued to mirror Soren.
Then—
Stillness.
Clean.
Absolute.
As if the anomaly had never happened.
Soren leaned back on his heels, hand trembling slightly.
Atticus's hand stayed on his shoulder until the tremor eased.
When Soren finally looked up, the captain's eyes were sharper than any blade.
"Everett," Atticus called. "Penn. Marcell. Here. Now."
The deck shifted as the others hurried over.
"What happened?" Elion asked, voice low but high with tension.
Everett had already prepared a slate. "Describe it."
Soren forced his breathing steady.
"The pulse came back," he said. "Three beats. Pause. Then three again. But when I touched the beam… it began mirroring my heartbeat."
Everett's eyes widened.
"That's not possible," Elion whispered.
"It is," Soren said. "I felt it. It was exact."
Atticus added, "Confirmed."
Marcell swore under his breath, pacing a short, tight line. "The sky's studying him. And now the ship is responding to that study."
"No," Everett corrected softly.
And the stillness sharpened around them.
"It's not responding. It's adapting."
Everyone fell silent.
Elion spoke next, quiet but firm.
"What does the captain think?" she asked.
Atticus didn't hesitate.
"I think the sky has found a frequency it can weave through him," he said, "and the Aurelius is reacting defensively to stabilize him."
Soren's heart stuttered.
"Defensively?" he repeated.
Atticus met his gaze.
"Yes."
Suddenly, everything made sense—the lanterns leaning with his steps, the hull tightening beneath him, the hum deepening wherever he stood.
The ship wasn't mimicking him.
It was bracing around him.
Because the sky was studying him closely enough to shift perception.
Soren's breath trembled.
"…Is this going to get worse?" he asked.
Atticus didn't answer immediately.
And that silence was answer enough.
________________________
Atticus turned to the crew.
"From this moment onward," he said, "the memoirist does not leave the mid deck or helm walkway without escort."
"Captain—" Soren began.
Atticus cut him off gently. "This is not optional."
"But I'm not—hurt."
"That is precisely when intervention matters most."
Marcell crossed his arms. "I agree."
"So do I," Everett said.
Elion nodded. "Same."
Soren felt heat rise to his face—embarrassment blended with something else he didn't want to examine too closely.
"You all think I'm unstable," he muttered.
"No," Atticus said, tone quiet but firm. "We think the sky is attempting to isolate your signal."
That phrasing made Soren straighten involuntarily.
"My… signal?"
Everett stepped forward.
"Soren, patterns that strong—mirroring heartbeat—don't form by accident. Whatever the sky is tuning itself to, it found something in you specifically."
Soren forced a weak laugh.
"Well. That's comforting."
"It should be," Atticus said.
And Soren blinked.
That was not the response he expected.
"Why?" he asked.
Atticus's gaze softened, just slightly—only enough for Soren, this close, to notice.
"Because," Atticus said, "if it learned you unintentionally, then it does not yet understand how to use what it learned."
Everett added, "Which means we still have the advantage of knowledge."
Elion chimed in, "And we can outthink something that hasn't decided what to do with its new toy."
"Not a toy," Marcell corrected sharply. "A target."
Soren opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Great," he said faintly. "Just what I wanted to be."
Atticus's voice went low—quiet enough the others weren't fully in earshot.
"You are not a target," he said. "You are an anchor."
Soren swallowed.
"And what does an anchor do?" he whispered.
Atticus held his gaze, unwavering.
"It keeps the ship steady when the waters want to take it."
Soren had no answer for that—not one that didn't expose too much.
_________________________
When they allowed him a moment alone under the helm awning—still in Atticus's line of sight—Soren opened his ledger.
Ink gathered on the pen's tip.
|| Second pulse phenomenon: Hull responded directly to my heartbeat. Sky mirrored bells away from me last night. Lanterns echoed my steps. Daylight wind learned crew patterns. The sky's focus is sharpening.
He paused.
Then he wrote what he wasn't saying aloud:
|| The ship is adjusting around me. Protecting me. Or bracing me. I can't tell which.
He hesitated.
Then added:
|| The captain is worried. Not in words, but in distance. He has not left my side.
He looked up.
Atticus stood near the helm, speaking with Marcell, posture composed but never fully relaxed. His eyes flicked to Soren briefly—not checking, but confirming.
Soren's chest tightened.
He closed the ledger.
The sky shifted above them—slow, deliberate, like someone turning a page.
Daylight still held.
But the quiet was no longer passive.
It had learned something today.
And it would act again.
_________________________