The wind behaved strangely that morning.
Not violently.
Not unnaturally.
Just… inconsistently.
A small gust would pass, brushing the rigging—
then nothing.
Stillness so complete it felt like the entire world had paused—
followed by another breeze, softer than the first.
As if the sky were exhaling in uneven breaths.
Soren stood beside the helm, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Atticus was next to him, a quiet wall of stability whose presence steadied Soren more than the wood beneath his boots.
He hadn't slept well.
His body was fine.
But his perception… wasn't.
Everything felt slightly shifted.
As though the air had depth he hadn't noticed before.
As though pressure had layers.
As though the world had a faint hum beneath its normal noise that only he could hear.
It wasn't loud.
But it was constant.
Everett approached cautiously, slate tucked under his arm.
"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked.
Soren hesitated.
The honest answer wasn't reassuring.
"I can tell where the wind will move," Soren said quietly.
Everett stopped mid-step. "…Pardon?"
Soren swallowed.
"It's like—when I look at the air, I can sense a direction. Before the wind goes there."
Everett blinked rapidly. "Are you predicting it?"
"I don't know," Soren murmured. "It feels more like… I'm hearing something the wind is thinking about doing. If that makes sense."
"No," Everett said. "But continue."
Atticus finally spoke, voice even.
"Demonstrate."
Soren glanced at the sky.
"There's going to be a small gust past the starboard rail. Low sweep. It'll tap the lantern—just a little."
Everett scribbled furiously.
Elion, hanging near the helm, frowned. "There's no draft that direction."
Soren didn't argue.
He just watched the air.
The wind brushed across the mid-deck—
exactly where he said it would—
lightly clicking the lantern's metal frame.
Elion's jaw dropped.
Everett nearly dropped his slate.
Marcell shouted from the rigging, "What in the seven skies—?!"
Atticus didn't flinch.
He only looked at Soren.
Not shocked.
Not impressed.
Concerned.
"Has this been happening since yesterday?" Atticus asked quietly.
Soren nodded. "Since last night."
Everett exhaled shakily. "This is… we are in new territory."
"Is it the sky?" Soren asked.
Everett shook his head.
"No. This feels like side-effects from resonance interference. You're not reading the sky. You're reading the space between things."
Soren stared.
"…That sounds terrible."
"It's incredibly dangerous," Everett admitted. "And also remarkably useful."
"Everett," Atticus said sharply.
"I'm merely acknowledging the facts, Captain."
Atticus didn't look away from Soren.
"This ability—" he said, "Does it hurt?"
"No," Soren murmured. "It just feels like I'm hearing something I'm not supposed to hear."
The ship hummed beneath him—
not in alarm,
but in confirmation.
Soren steadied himself on the rail.
_________________________
Elion approached, her map still in hand.
"Soren," she said carefully, "can you tell if the wind intends anything… strange today?"
Soren closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Listened.
The wind whispered faintly, like someone skimming a finger along a glass rim.
Soft.
Tentative.
Curious.
"It's not hostile," Soren said slowly. "Just… attentive. It's studying how we move."
Elion looked relieved. Everett looked horrified.
Atticus's expression didn't shift, but Soren could feel the tension in the air around him tightening like a drawn bowstring.
Then the atmosphere changed.
So subtly Soren barely noticed it—
until the ship reacted.
A deep, rumbling resonance moved through the beams, running the length of the deck like a warning ripple.
The crew braced instinctively.
Soren's breath caught.
"…She felt something," he whispered.
Atticus stepped closer. "Where?"
Soren turned his head toward the stern—
not because he saw anything,
but because something in the pressure gradient tilted that way.
"There," Soren said. "It's faint. Like a… a curve in the air."
Everett rapidly flipped to a new page on his slate.
"A pressure dip?" he suggested.
"No," Soren said. "Not a dip. A pull."
The hum intensified.
Atticus' eyes sharpened. "Is it directed at you?"
Soren's heart stuttered.
He took a slow breath.
Closed his eyes again.
"…No," he whispered.
"It's not touching me."
That should've been comforting.
It wasn't.
"What is it touching?" Elion asked.
Soren swallowed.
"The ship."
_________________________
The pressure curved once more—
a subtle shift like a bow being made without words.
A greeting.
A signal.
A gesture.
Soren felt the ship tighten under his feet.
Atticus didn't wait.
"Elion," he said, "adjust trajectory three degrees port."
"On it," she said, immediately turning the wheel.
Everett stumbled slightly as the deck shifted. "Why port?"
"Instinct," Atticus replied. "The ship is bracing."
And indeed—
the hum grew steady and thick, like armor being drawn tighter around ribs.
The pressure in the air strengthened—
then softened.
A quiet exhale.
Like the sky acknowledging the change.
Like it was saying:
I see you.
Soren grabbed the rail.
"That felt—"
"Intentional?" Everett guessed.
Soren nodded.
Atticus's gaze hardened.
"Does the sky want a response?" he asked.
"Yes," Soren whispered. "But not from me."
"From who?" Atticus demanded.
Soren looked down.
"…From her."
The ship hummed again, deeper this time.
Elion swore softly.
Everett whispered, "They're communicating without us."
Soren corrected him quietly.
"No. They're communicating around us."
________________________
Soren's senses sharpened again—
quick, sharp, almost painful.
The world stretched.
Flattened.
Folded.
Not physically.
Perceptually.
As if someone rotated the horizon by half a degree while no one was looking.
Soren gasped.
Everett reached out. "Soren—?"
"I—I don't know," Soren whispered. "Something just…—"
The ship hummed violently.
Atticus grabbed Soren's wrist instinctively, grounding him.
The world snapped back into correct orientation.
Soren staggered forward with the force of the return.
The ship caught him—
not physically,
but with a stabilizing sensation through the soles of his boots.
Atticus kept hold of his wrist even after Soren steadied.
"What was that?" Elion demanded.
Soren panted. "It tried to show me… perspective. Not a place. Not a direction. Just—perspective."
"And why?" Everett asked.
Soren pressed a hand to his forehead.
"…To see if I could follow."
Atticus's jaw clenched.
Rysen cursed.
Marcell shouted, "Absolutely not!"
The wind brushed lightly against the sails—
not mocking,
not aggressive,
but testing.
Atticus moved between Soren and the open sky, blocking the angle entirely.
His voice came quiet, fierce:
"You do not follow. Ever."
Soren nodded weakly.
"I know," he whispered. "I—I didn't."
Atticus didn't step away.
Not even for a breath.
_________________________
As the pressure eased and the deck returned to its normal rhythm, Soren tried to pull his wrist back gently.
Atticus did not let go.
Not immediately.
Not until Soren met his eyes.
And the look Soren found there was—
Different.
Not captain-steady.
Not professional-concerned.
Not even protective-command.
It was something sharp and quiet
and personal.
Something that said:
I cannot lose you.
Soren swallowed.
Atticus released him only after the message was silently delivered.
The wind retreated for now.
But the sky hadn't gone far.
Soren exhaled shakily.
"…It's not done," he whispered.
Atticus answered without hesitation:
"Neither are we."
_________________________
The deck had mostly settled again, though "settled" was relative.
The air remained tense, watchful.
Even the sky's silence felt like it was waiting for something.
Atticus moved away only long enough to give Marcell new route adjustments.
Everett paced with scribbles that were turning frantic.
Elion leaned over the helm map, chewing her lower lip.
Rysen stayed within arm's reach of Soren.
Nell hovered nearby pretending not to hover.
And then—
A door belowdeck slammed.
Not out of anger.
Out of urgency.
The crew turned.
Cassian Wolfe climbed up the stairs, holding a slate board so dense with numbers it looked like a storm had crashed into it.
His expression was the same as always:
serious, focused, impossible to read.
But there was a tightness around his eyes —
a subtle alarm only people who knew him well could recognize.
Soren straightened instinctively.
Everett froze mid-scribble.
Atticus turned fully.
Cassian walked across the deck with purposeful strides, stopping several paces from the helm.
"Captain," he said, voice steady, "we have a problem."
Atticus nodded once. "Report."
Cassian held out the board.
"These are the atmospheric readings from the last four intervals," he said. "Temperature, pressure drift, wind resistance, and upper-current shear."
Everett stepped forward, brow furrowed. "But earlier readings weren't consistent enough to—"
"They're consistent now," Cassian said.
Something in his tone made Everett's face drain.
Soren swallowed.
"What changed?" Everett asked.
Cassian tapped the board.
"Everything."
________________________
Cassian turned the slate so Atticus and Everett could see it.
Soren moved closer too — not because he understood the numbers, but because something about Cassian's tone made his pulse quicken.
The readings were… wrong.
Not chaotic.
Not random.
Too clean.
Too deliberate.
Pressure dips forming patterns.
Temperature gradients aligning into geometric curves.
Wind directions converging toward a single point.
Everett's hands shook slightly.
"These values… these alignments… Cassian, this isn't natural."
"No," Cassian said. "It isn't."
Atticus's voice was razor-thin.
"What does it mean?"
Cassian exhaled.
"It means the sky isn't reacting to us," he said.
"It's preparing."
Soren's breath froze.
Atticus took a step closer.
"Preparing what," he demanded, "exactly?"
Cassian met the captain's gaze evenly.
"A convergence."
________________________
Everett staggered back a half-step.
"No. No, Cassian, convergence events are theoretical. They're not—"
"They are now," Cassian said.
"What's a convergence?" Nell asked, wide-eyed.
Rysen answered.
"A point where atmospheric forces — sky pressure, upper currents, and resonance lines — all intersect. It's like… pulling three storms into the same space, except those storms aren't storms."
"That explained nothing," Nell muttered.
Everett tried again.
"It's a phenomenon where the sky focuses itself. Intentionally."
"Oh," Nell said faintly. "That's worse."
Cassian pointed to another set of numbers.
"I traced the curvature of the gradients," he said. "They're bending around a central axis."
Everett's voice rose. "The axis is moving."
Cassian nodded.
"It is."
"Where?" Atticus asked.
Cassian lifted his gaze.
Directly at Soren.
Soren felt a cold shock run down his spine.
Then Cassian added:
"It's following him."
__________________________
Elion swore loudly.
Marcell cursed so hard a sailor on night shift would blush.
Rysen muttered something about needing more sedatives.
Nell said nothing—her mouth just hung open.
Soren couldn't speak.
Atticus could.
"How certain," he said, voice quiet but deadly, "are you."
Cassian didn't blink.
"Very."
Everett groaned into both hands. "This is not happening. This cannot be happening—"
Atticus stepped directly into Cassian's space.
"Explain your certainty," he ordered.
Cassian held the board between them.
"The gradients began converging after the first echo-surge yesterday."
Swipe.
More numbers.
"They tightened further after the second pulse."
Swipe.
"Then stabilized when the course shifted around chapter 29."
Elion lifted her head sharply.
"You're tracking by chapters now?!"
Cassian ignored her.
"And finally—"
He tapped the last line of readings.
"—the axis curved again when Soren reacted to the soft echo earlier."
Atticus froze.
EVERYONE froze.
Soren felt his pulse flutter like a trapped bird.
"…So it really is following me," Soren whispered.
Rysen stepped closer, voice dropping.
"It's not just following you. It's adjusting around you. That's… that's intelligent behavior."
Nell whispered, horrified,
"Like a predator."
Soren's stomach turned.
But Cassian shook his head.
"No," he said. "Not a predator."
Everyone stared at him.
Cassian's voice was calm.
Too calm.
"It is not preparing to feed," he said.
"It is preparing to align."
Soren went cold.
Everett stumbled backward. "No. No—alignment sequences don't happen with humans."
Cassian looked at Soren.
"The sky doesn't seem to care."
_______________________
Atticus's expression was unreadable.
His posture was not.
He stepped in front of Soren—fully this time—shoulders squared, stance wide, as if physically placing himself between Soren and the entire sky.
His voice cut the air.
"What must be done to stop the convergence."
Cassian didn't flinch.
"There are three methods," he said. "Two are impossible."
"Give them to me," Atticus commanded.
Cassian raised one finger.
"One: disrupt the axis with countercurrent storms."
"The ship cannot survive that," Marcell growled.
Cassian lifted a second finger.
"Two: break resonance by isolating Soren in a sealed chamber."
"That would overload his senses," Rysen muttered. "He could fracture."
Cassian lifted a third finger.
"And three."
Everyone leaned in.
Cassian's gaze flicked between Atticus and Soren before settling somewhere in the space between them.
"The third option," he said, "is to make the sky lose interest."
Soren blinked. "Lose… interest?"
"Yes," Cassian said. "Convergence requires focus. If the sky shifts its attention to something else—or someone else—the axis dissolves."
Nell brightened. "So we just distract it!"
Cassian's voice flattened.
"You cannot distract the sky."
"Oh."
Atticus's jaw clenched.
"What shifts its attention," he asked quietly.
Cassian hesitated.
Then:
"Fear," he said softly. "Conflict. Divergence. Anything that disrupts the stability of its target's resonance signature."
Everett went still.
"You mean… emotionally."
Cassian nodded once.
Soren stared.
"You want me to become unstable?" he whispered.
"No," Cassian said.
"You need to become unreadable."
Soren's breath hitched.
"And how do I do that?"
Cassian looked at Atticus.
Atticus looked at Cassian.
Something tense passed between them.
Everett seemed to sense it first, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh no," he breathed. "No, no—"
Cassian exhaled.
"The simplest method," he said quietly,
"is for someone to alter your resonance."
Soren blinked. "Meaning?"
Cassian looked at Atticus.
Atticus did not look away.
"Meaning," Cassian said softly,
"someone needs to get close enough to change the shape of your emotional field."
Soren froze.
Everyone froze.
And Atticus's voice, low and dangerous, finally broke the silence:
"Define close."
_________________________