The morning broke in a wash of pearl-grey light, the kind that softened the Aurelius' brass edges and left the deckboards gleaming with a muted sheen. The wind was steady, almost courteous, as though granting the ship a rare moment of calm after days of subtle strain. Even the crew moved with a quieter rhythm, voices low, steps measured—as if the ship herself were offering a single breath of peace before whatever came next.
Soren stepped onto the deck with his ledger tucked beneath his arm, fully intent on reviewing the notes from last night's atmospheric recalibration. He expected a handful of idle crew, perhaps the shift change settling. Instead, he nearly walked straight into a wall of tension.
Marcell stood at the railing with two officers, speaking in a voice low enough to keep it from carrying—but stiff enough that Soren could feel the authority even from several steps away. One of the officers noticed Soren and hesitated, glancing toward the vice-captain as though asking whether the memoirist should be cleared from the scene.
Marcell's eyes flicked sideways. Not annoyed. Not hostile.
Just… measuring.
Soren paused, lowered his gaze respectfully, and turned to slip into a different section of the deck.
He didn't get far.
Captain Atticus emerged from the opposite direction, long coat brushing the deckboards, expression calm but edged with a sharpness that meant something had unsettled him. Not alarm—Atticus never showed alarm. But something focused. Intent.
His gaze landed on Soren immediately.
"Good morning," Atticus said, evenly.
Soren straightened. "Captain."
Atticus's attention swept the deck behind Soren, taking in Marcell's quiet discussion before returning to him. "You're up early."
"I… couldn't sleep well," Soren admitted. "The wind kept changing tone." Then, catching himself, he quickly added, "Or perhaps I simply misinterpreted."
Atticus lifted a brow, but didn't press.
"It wasn't harmful," Soren said quickly. "Just—different."
"Different how?"
Soren hesitated.
How could he put it into words without sounding overly imaginative? Without risking the implication that he was getting too sensitive, too close to some invisible line?
"It felt like it was… narrowing," he finally said. "Focused. As though the sky wanted to funnel something through."
He winced the moment it left his mouth—overly poetic, overly interpretive.
Ledger language was supposed to be factual, not intuitive.
Atticus's gaze sharpened.
Before Soren could backtrack, the captain turned slightly, addressing him with a quieter, more contained voice.
"Did you feel that last night," Atticus said, "or did you hear it?"
Soren blinked. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes."
Atticus stepped closer, lowering his voice even further. "A significant one."
Soren's heart flicked against his ribs. "Then… I think I heard it."
Atticus exhaled once—slow, controlled—but Soren could tell it meant something heavy.
Before either could continue, Elion Penn approached with her navigation slate tucked under her arm, eyes bright with calculation.
"Captain—Vice-Captain Marcell wants you at the helm. There's a pattern in the readings he thinks you'll want to confirm."
Atticus gave her a single nod, then turned to Soren.
"Stay near the midship today," he said quietly. "Avoid the railings."
Soren blinked. "Why?"
Atticus held his eyes for a beat longer than usual.
Not warning.
Not command.
But something like: Because the sky is looking for you.
"I would prefer you keep your footing," Atticus said.
And with that, he was gone—coat sweeping behind him, steps steady and sure.
Soren watched him leave, heat crawling up the back of his neck.
Not fear.
Not embarrassment.
An unsettling awareness.
He turned to head back toward the interior walkway—when Everett Caelum intercepted him with his usual stack of archive folders carried in the crook of one arm.
"Memos," Everett said, adjusting his glasses. "Marcell wants these transcribed into the record before noon."
"Now?" Soren blinked. "But the morning briefing—"
"Was rescheduled." Everett leaned closer. "Quietly. Only the officers were called."
Soren's pulse thudded once.
"Oh," he murmured. "Then… something changed?"
Everett's mouth tightened in confirmation, though he said nothing directly. Instead, he handed over the papers.
"The officers have requested absolute silence on deck until readings stabilize. If you're free, assist me in the archive room."
Soren nodded, swallowing the urge to ask more. Everett wasn't refusing to answer—he was protecting him by not answering.
They moved through the narrow corridor and into the archive room, where the pale morning light filtered through the glass slats, painting thin stripes across the desks and shelves.
As Soren settled in with the documents, the usual quiet comfort of the room settled around him… until the floor beneath them hummed.
Soft. Barely perceptible.
Like the ship was whispering through its bones.
Everett didn't react.
Soren did.
He set his pen down subtly, trying to keep his breathing steady.
There it was again.
A faint, deliberate rumble through the planks.
Not turbulence.
Not mechanical.
A summons.
He swallowed and pressed a palm lightly against the table, eyes drifting to the slatted window. The sky outside looked normal—soft clouds drifting, sunlight spilling pale over the horizon.
It didn't feel normal.
It felt like someone exhaling very slowly, very deliberately, through a crack in the world.
Soren forced himself back to the documents.
He was overthinking again.
Let Atticus and Marcell handle it.
He had work to do.
He needed to—
The floor thudded once beneath him, sharp enough that Everett finally paused mid-sentence.
"That wasn't mechanical," Everett murmured.
Soren's throat tightened.
He knew.
He'd known the moment he woke up.
"Everett," he said softly, "did anything unusual happen during your shift last night?"
Everett studied him with a surprisingly perceptive glance.
"No," he said.
Then—after a beat—
"Nothing that I could record."
Soren froze.
Everett gave a quiet sigh, straightened the folder in his hand, and tapped it lightly.
"When the officers hold a briefing without us," Everett said, "something moved in the world. Not on the ship."
Soren stared at the table.
The air suddenly felt too thin.
Everett leaned in, lowering his voice.
"If the wind was speaking, Soren," he murmured, "the officers certainly heard it too."
The hum beneath the floorboards faded…
but inside Soren, something did not.
It tightened.
Focused.
Listening.
_________________________
When Soren finally stepped out of the archive room, the air in the corridor felt noticeably heavier. Not suffocating—just thick, like the ship was passing through some invisible curtain.
Crew members passed by him in brisk, clipped steps—voices low, shoulders tight—and though none of them looked frightened, they all wore the same expression:
Alert.
Cautious.
Waiting.
Soren tucked his notes under his arm and made for the midship deck as Atticus had instructed. He replayed Everett's words in his mind:
"If the wind was speaking… the officers heard it too."
What did that mean?
What did it want?
And why did its attention feel sharper today, as if it had leaned closer overnight?
He shook off the thought. Stick to instructions. Stay midship. Don't wander. Don't feed the imagination too much.
He stepped onto the deck—
—and froze.
Marcell was at the helm platform with Atticus, both staring at the horizon with an intensity Soren had rarely seen. Elion Penn stood just beside them, her stylus paused above her slate, brow furrowed in deep concentration.
Cassian Wolfe, usually composed and aloof on the periphery, stood at their opposite side, arms folded, jaw tight. He wasn't speaking—which meant the situation was serious enough that even Cassian's commentary had been put aside.
Soren's pulse tapped faster.
He didn't intend to go near them.
He didn't want to interrupt.
But as he moved toward the midship rail, the ship lurched.
Not violently.
Just enough to stagger him sideways.
His hand slapped against the railing—but the wood beneath his palm pulsed.
Once.
A single, deliberate thrum.
Soren jerked his hand back like he'd touched a living creature.
The wind rose immediately, sweeping across the deck in a low, spiraling draft that circled once around him. His hair lifted. His coat fluttered. The air thinned, then tightened—like a hand considering whether to close.
Not threatening.
Assessing.
Choosing.
Soren's breath hitched.
Something about it felt horribly familiar—too familiar.
But familiar to what?
To a memory he did not have?
He took a step back.
The wind followed.
His heel clipped the base of a coil of rope, and his balance tipped—just slightly, just enough for a dizzy moment of weightlessness as the railing swayed in his peripheral vision.
"Soren!"
His name lashed through the air like a command.
A hand closed firmly around his upper arm—not harsh, but unyielding—and steadied him before he could stumble further.
Atticus.
Soren exhaled a shaking breath just as the wind peeled away sharply, as though scolded.
Atticus's hand stayed a moment longer than necessary.
"You were told to stay midship," Atticus said, low, controlled.
"I was midship," Soren managed, mortified. "I didn't mean— I just— the deck shifted."
"The ship didn't shift," Atticus replied quietly.
Soren froze.
Atticus's eyes held his for a heartbeat too long—blue, intense, unreadable—and Soren felt every word he didn't say:
You shifted.
Something pulled at you.
Don't pretend you didn't feel it.
Marcell approached, expression caught between worry and exasperation.
"Soren, are you injured?"
"N-no. Just startled."
"Then stay closer to the interior wall," Marcell said, soft but firm. "Until the readings normalize."
Atticus didn't release his arm until Marcell stepped away.
And even then, it felt more like a reluctant letting go than a dismissal.
Soren swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"You don't need to be sorry," Atticus replied. "Just aware."
Of what?
Soren wanted to ask.
The sky?
His imbalance?
The way the wind had circled him, like a predator memorizing a heartbeat?
Or something deeper—something Atticus seemed to understand better than he let on?
Before Soren could gather his thoughts, Elion cleared her throat.
"Captain," she called, "you should see this."
Atticus stepped away with a curt nod, leaving Soren standing alone in the cooling wind.
Soren stayed where he was, trying to will his pulse down to normal. But his chest still felt tight, as if the wind's invisible grip had never truly released.
Eventually, he drifted away from the railing and leaned against the inner wall, rubbing his arms as though the cold had seeped through him. He wasn't sure how long he stood there before Everett's voice cut through the fog.
"There you are."
Soren blinked and looked up to see Everett carrying another stack of notes.
"Marcell asked if you were steady enough to continue transcribing."
Steady?
Soren resisted the urge to laugh. "Yes. I'm fine."
"You didn't look fine," Everett muttered as he handed over the papers. "Whatever happened just now—don't let the officers minimize it."
Soren opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded. "It was nothing dangerous."
Everett's gaze sharpened behind his glasses. "That's not the same as saying it was nothing."
Soren exhaled.
"What are they saying?" he asked quietly.
Everett considered, then answered with the softest honesty:
"Something in the sky tried to communicate.
And the officers don't like who it seemed to be communicating through."
Soren's stomach dipped. "Everett—"
But Everett lifted a hand gently.
"It's not about blame," he murmured. "It's about attention. And you… are being paid a great deal of it."
Soren felt the cold again.
Not from the wind.
From realization.
Everett continued, voice steady:
"Stay near people today. Especially the captain or Marcell. Don't isolate yourself."
Soren's breath wavered. "Do you think something is… coming?"
"No," Everett said.
Then, after a beat:
"I think something is trying."
_________________________
The rest of the day passed under a sky that felt too quiet.
Not peaceful—
poised.
Like an orchestra waiting for its conductor to lift a hand.
And Soren, despite trying to steady his thoughts, couldn't shake the sensation that the sky was listening to him breathe.
_________________________