Soren sensed the change before he fully woke.
Not by sound.
Not by movement.
By absence.
Something that had been present for days—an invisible pressure, a listening tension—had eased overnight, like fingers slowly releasing from a surface.
But only half-released.
The kind of quiet that whispered:
I'm stepping back, not leaving.
He sat up slowly, palms pressed to the mattress. The faint dizziness from yesterday was gone, or mostly gone. His limbs felt lighter, but the center of his chest held a subtle tug, like the ship was gently reminding him it was there.
Soren dressed and stepped into the corridor—
—and immediately stopped.
The lanterns did not flicker at all.
Not with his movement.
Not with the corridor draft.
Not with anything.
They burned steady.
Too steady.
Holding themselves unnaturally still, as if refusing to echo him.
Soren's skin prickled.
This was worse.
When the sky mirrored him, at least he understood what it wanted—information.
But now the sky was withholding something.
Learning silently.
Waiting silently.
And that made the air feel thick.
__________________________
When Soren reached the deck, the crew was already working—hoisting lines, tightening knots, inspecting joints. Everything moved smoothly, but with a new tension under the routine.
Elion caught sight of him and lifted her hand in greeting—but it wasn't her usual bright wave. Her fingers paused midway, hesitated, then completed the gesture.
That hesitation said everything.
People didn't know how close they should stand to him now.
He tried not to let that sink into his ribs.
Marcell stood near the port railing, checking the rigging with a frown etched so deeply it seemed permanent.
When he turned and saw Soren, he gave a curt nod.
"Memoirist."
"Morning, Vice-captain."
"You hear anything unusual in your cabin?"
Soren shook his head. "No. You?"
Marcell looked at the sky. "Not yet. That's the problem."
Soren followed his gaze.
The sky today was… blank.
Uniform pale grey. No texture. No movement. No wind brushing the cloud edges.
As if someone had stretched canvas taut over the world and refused to add color.
And that stillness made Soren uneasy in a way turbulence never could.
"It's hiding," Soren murmured.
Marcell shot him a sharp glance. "What?"
"I—I just mean…"
He swallowed.
"It isn't showing anything. Which feels deliberate."
Marcell didn't argue.
He only said:
"Stay where the captain can see you."
Soren nodded.
He was about to move toward the helm walkway when the hum of the Aurelius trembled beneath his boots—just slightly, like the ship clearing her throat.
Soren paused.
Placed his hand on the midline beam.
The hum… leaned into him.
A greeting.
A reassurance.
A warning.
He couldn't tell.
But the connection was clearer today, as if the ship had drawn closer after yesterday's pulses.
"Memoirist!"
Soren's head snapped up.
Rysen strode across the deck, medical satchel slung over one shoulder, hair only half-tamed, eyes sharp despite the early hour.
"You're pale," Rysen said immediately.
"I'm always pale," Soren protested.
"You're extra pale," Rysen corrected, flicking open his satchel. "Pulse."
Soren sighed and held out his wrist.
"Your bedside manner is getting worse," he muttered.
"I save my charm for unconscious patients," Rysen said.
His fingers found Soren's pulse—and froze.
"…Interesting."
Soren stiffened. "Interesting how?"
Rysen's brows drew together.
"Your heart rate is steady," he said slowly. "But it's holding itself in two rhythms for a moment before settling into one."
Soren blinked. "Two rhythms?"
Rysen nodded. "Like it's choosing which one is yours."
Soren's mouth went dry.
"That's not—normal," Soren whispered.
"No," Rysen agreed. "And considering what happened yesterday, I don't like it."
He glanced toward the helm.
"Where's the captain?"
"Here."
Atticus's voice arrived before he did.
He stepped onto the mid deck with the precision of someone stepping directly into a battlefield he recognized. His coat caught the faint, stagnant light; his presence grounded the deck instantly.
"Report," Atticus said.
Rysen gestured to Soren. "His pulse."
Soren lifted his wrist slightly.
Atticus approached.
Soren tried—and failed—not to react when the captain's fingers touched his wrist too, firm and cool.
Atticus waited.
Measured.
Listened.
Seconds passed.
Finally, his eyes lifted.
"I felt it," Atticus said.
Soren's stomach dropped. "What did you feel?"
"A hesitation," Atticus said quietly. "As if your heartbeat is waiting for something else to beat first."
Rysen exhaled sharply. "Exactly."
Soren looked between them.
"And what does that even mean?"
Rysen answered first.
"It means whatever mirrored you yesterday hasn't let go."
Atticus's voice lowered.
"And it means the sky may be trying to sync with you again."
Soren's breath hitched.
"No," Atticus added sharply, instantly noticing. "Not the sky alone. The ship is countering it. That's why the rhythm keeps resetting."
Soren swallowed, trying to steady his breathing.
"So I'm stuck between them."
"No," Atticus said.
And this time his voice held weight.
Weight enough to ground Soren through the panic rising in his chest.
"You are not between them," Atticus said quietly. "You are the point they are both circling—and one of them is on your side."
The Aurelius hummed beneath Soren's boots, almost in agreement.
__________________________
Word spread quickly.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
But Soren felt it.
Crew members grew quieter around him.
Gave him more space.
Watched him from the edges of conversations as if he were carrying a lit match in a room full of oil.
Nell didn't avoid him—but she approached more softly than usual.
"You okay?" she asked, standing beside him without touching the rail.
"I'm fine," Soren said.
Then corrected himself.
"I will be."
"That's not the same," she said.
"No," Soren admitted. "It isn't."
She nodded once.
"If you need anything—food, tea, someone to distract you by being annoying—I'm around."
Soren managed a small smile. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm terrible at comforting people."
"You're doing fine."
She nudged him with her elbow. "Tell that to my last ex."
Soren snorted despite himself.
Then her expression softened.
"We'll figure this out," she said. "All of us. You're not alone. Even if the sky is staring at you like you're the shiny spoon in a cutlery drawer."
"That is an awful analogy."
"I know. I panicked."
Soren huffed a laugh.
And for a moment, the weight lifted.
Then Atticus called from the helm walkway:
"Memoirist. With me."
The moment evaporated.
_________________________
The sky remained blank.
Oppressively blank.
And that was wrong.
Atticus stood at the railing, gaze fixed on the horizon as if reading something invisible.
Soren stood beside him.
"What changed overnight?" Atticus asked quietly.
"Everything and nothing," Soren replied. "The sky is still watching. But it's stopped interacting."
"Stopped?" Atticus echoed.
"Yes," Soren said. "Yesterday it mimicked my movement patterns. Today it refuses to."
"And the ship?"
"The ship is… closer."
Atticus's eyes flicked toward him.
"In what sense?"
Soren placed his hand on the rail.
Instantly, the hum rose to meet him—warm, steady, grounding.
"She's leaning toward me," Soren murmured. "Not reacting. Supporting."
Atticus watched him.
"Do you understand what that means?" he asked.
Soren shook his head.
"Explain."
Atticus's voice dropped—quiet enough that only Soren could hear it.
"It means the Aurelius has identified you as the anchor point of this anomaly. And she is preparing to interpose herself."
Soren stared.
"You mean…"
"Yes."
Atticus's voice was calm, controlled, terrifyingly precise.
"She is preparing to fight the sky for you."
Soren's breath caught.
Atticus didn't look away.
"And that," the captain murmured, "is why you must not wander. If the sky presses again, I need you close enough that I can intervene—and close enough that the Aurelius does not tear a hole in the air trying to reach you."
Soren felt the deck hum beneath him—and for the first time, it felt urgent.
Alive.
Protective.
He swallowed hard.
"Captain," he whispered, "I don't know if I can handle this."
Atticus's voice softened—quiet steel wrapped in warmth.
"You will not handle it alone."
He stepped closer—not touching, but near enough that their shadows merged.
"I am here," Atticus said. "And unless the sky intends to fight me directly—"
The wind rose suddenly.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just present.
Listening.
Atticus didn't flinch.
"—it will not touch you."
_________________________
The sky did not warn them.
No shift in color.
No temperature drop.
No wind.
Only stillness.
A stillness so complete it felt like everything—cloud, air, horizon—held its breath in the same suspended moment.
Elion froze mid-adjustment at the helm.
Everett stopped halfway up the stairs with an instrument in hand.
Marcell's voice died on the last syllable of an order.
Soren felt it first.
A pressure—not on his skin, not on his ears, but in the air around him.
A subtle tightening, like the world had narrowed into a corridor whose walls he couldn't see.
His pulse stumbled.
The ship responded instantly.
The hum beneath his feet rose—deepening, thickening, vibrating through the deck with a protective readiness he had never felt before. The resonance curled under his ribs as if anchoring him to the wood.
Atticus's hand shot out.
Not rough.
Not panicked.
But absolute.
He grasped the back of Soren's coat just enough to hold him steady.
"Stay with me," Atticus murmured.
Soren opened his mouth to answer—
—and the sky moved.
Not physically.
Not visibly.
But something pressed.
A full-bodied, invisible force that swept across the bow and hit Soren square in the chest like a question he hadn't agreed to answer.
He staggered.
The hum roared.
Not outward—inward.
As if the Aurelius was pulling him tightly against herself.
Atticus moved faster than Soren thought humanly possible.
He caught him by the arm, pulling Soren back against the railing in a controlled movement that never once lost balance. His grip was firm, decisive, and far warmer than the cold pressing in from the sky.
"Soren," Atticus said sharply. "Look at me."
Soren did.
Because the alternative—the spreading, tightening, analyzing sensation from above—felt too much like falling without falling.
Atticus's voice cut through it:
"Name something you see."
Soren swallowed. "The—rigging. Taut. No wind."
"Good. Something you hear."
"The hum," Soren whispered. "Louder. Stronger."
"Something you feel."
"…Your hand," he said before thinking.
Atticus didn't react to the admission.
"Good," he said quietly.
The pressure eased.
But did not vanish.
__________________________
A shape began forming in the clouds.
Not a creature.
Not a storm.
A hollow.
A perfectly circular thinning of cloud cover, like the sky had pressed its thumb into the surface of the world to see what lay underneath.
Soren's breath froze in his chest.
The hollow widened—slowly, slowly—revealing nothing but deeper grey behind it.
Elion swore under her breath.
Everett whispered something to himself, hands shaking around his instrument.
Marcell took a step forward, hand instinctively resting on the nearest secured rope.
Atticus didn't release Soren.
The hollow pulsed once.
The same rhythm as the ship's heartbeat.
Or Soren's.
Soren's knees threatened to buckle.
Atticus pulled him closer—almost against his side now—voice low but commanding:
"Do not answer it."
Soren shook his head. "I—I'm not—"
"You are," Atticus said, steady and precise. "Not by choice. By resonance."
The hollow brightened faintly at its edges.
Not light.
Not glow.
But awareness.
A gaze without eyes.
Soren couldn't look away.
The sky pressed—not violently, not aggressively, but with an almost scientific curiosity.
You.
It seemed to say.
You again.
He felt something tug near his sternum, a thin thread stretching from him toward the hollow.
The ship reacted instantly.
A violent surge of hum rippled through the deck—strong enough that several crew grabbed the railing in surprise.
The resonance slammed down the thread, severing the connection.
Soren gasped.
Atticus's grip tightened.
"Are you hurt?" he asked sharply.
"No—no, just—" Soren pressed a hand to his chest. "It tried to pull."
Marcell barked out, "The hell does that mean?!"
Everett answered, pale:
"It means the sky attempted to align his internal rhythm with something external."
Elion nearly dropped her map. "External like what? A current? A pressure vein? A—a direction?!"
"No," Everett said hoarsely.
"A signal."
Soren's stomach flipped.
Atticus's jaw set. "The sky attempted to call him."
Soren stared. "Call—?"
"Yes," Atticus said. "And the Aurelius blocked it."
The hollow pulsed again.
This time the ship growled.
There was no other word for it.
A deep, resonant vibration shuddered through her beams—protective, territorial, furious.
The hollow dimmed.
As if the sky reconsidered.
Then slowly, steadily, the circle closed.
Cloud edges knitting back into a blank, indifferent surface.
The pressure lifted.
Soren sagged against the railing, breath shaking.
Atticus didn't let go until the hollow had fully vanished.
Only then did he turn slightly toward Everett.
"Your analysis," Atticus ordered.
Everett rubbed a trembling hand over his face.
"The sky tested the ship's bond to Soren," he said. "Then tried to initiate a synchronization event."
Nell, wide-eyed from the starboard deck, shouted:
"In plain words?!"
Everett swallowed.
"It tried to see if he could follow."
Soren felt the world tilt.
Atticus's expression darkened with a slow, cold fury Soren had never seen before.
"He is not going anywhere," Atticus said.
The wind curled around them, soft and faint.
As if the sky didn't agree.
Or did.
Soren could not tell.
_________________________
Atticus guided Soren toward the helm awning, one hand still firm at his elbow.
"You're trembling," Atticus said quietly.
Soren exhaled shakily. "I'm trying not to."
"That is reasonable."
Soren swallowed. "What did it want?"
Atticus looked at the horizon.
"Possibility."
Soren frowned. "…That isn't an answer."
Atticus turned to him fully.
"It wanted to see if you would respond," he said. "If you would move when it called. If you would shift your rhythm to match its own."
"That feels—intimate," Soren whispered, horrified.
"Yes," Atticus said. "And unacceptable."
Soren's chest tightened.
Then, in a voice soft enough the wind could not steal it:
"Captain… why me?"
Atticus held his gaze—steady, unflinching.
"Because," he said,
"you hear the sky in a way others do not.
And the sky has realized that."
Soren felt cold.
"And because the ship hears you in a way she hears no one else."
Atticus stepped closer—close enough that Soren felt anchor and steel in his presence.
"That intersection makes you important," he said. "To both."
Soren whispered:
"That sounds dangerous."
Atticus's voice softened.
"It is."
He paused.
"But you will not face it alone. Not while I am captain. Not while you are on my deck."
Soren pressed his shaking hand to his chest.
"I don't know how long I can handle this," he admitted.
Atticus leaned in—just enough that his shadow merged with Soren's again.
"Then I will hold the line with you," he said.
The wind quieted.
The ship hummed low and certain under Soren's feet.
And somewhere behind the blank sky, something remembered him.
And would return.
_________________________