Rysen did not let the walk end the way walks usually did—by drifting apart at a junction, by unspoken agreement that each would continue on their own path.
Instead, when they reached the corridor that branched toward Soren's quarters, Rysen slowed first, then stopped outright, turning in such a way that Soren had to halt as well. The interruption came gently but decisively, a break in momentum that made Soren acutely aware of how much he had been relying on forward motion to keep himself upright.
"Here," Rysen said.
The word was simple. Final.
Soren nodded, though the movement sent a faint pulse of pressure through his skull, sharp enough that he had to blink once, then again, to clear the sudden blur at the edges of his vision. He straightened instinctively, not wanting to look as unsteady as he felt.
"You're going to lie down," Rysen continued, tone even, uninflected. "Flat. Not sitting on the edge of the bunk. Not leaning against the wall."
"I was planning to—"
Rysen raised a hand, not sharply, but with a quiet authority that stopped the sentence before it could fully form. "After that," he said, "you eat. The mess will still be open. Even if you don't want to."
Soren swallowed. His throat felt thick, raw in a way that made the simple act uncomfortable. "I'm not hungry."
"I know," Rysen replied. "That's irrelevant."
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small glass vial, holding it out without ceremony. The glass caught the corridor light, the liquid inside clear and unassuming.
"If you start shaking," Rysen said, "or your temperature climbs, take this. If it doesn't, I'll check back in a cycle."
Soren stared at the vial for a second longer than necessary. His fingers felt clumsy as he took it, the cool glass pressing into his palm in a way that felt oddly grounding.
"You don't need to—" he began.
Rysen's gaze sharpened—not with irritation, but resolve. "I do."
The words were quiet, but they carried weight. Not command. Not plea. Just certainty.
They stood there for a moment longer, the corridor humming softly around them, the ship's systems breathing in their steady, mechanical way. Then Rysen nodded once, satisfied.
"Rest," he said again. "Then eat."
He turned and walked away before Soren could argue, boots striking the deck with the same measured cadence they always did.
Soren watched him go until the corridor curved and swallowed him, then exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him with more effort than it should have. He turned toward his quarters, suddenly aware of how far away they felt despite being only a short distance down the passage.
Inside, the room felt too warm.
Not stifling—just close, the air heavier than earlier, pressing in on him in a way that made it harder to draw a full breath. Soren shrugged out of his coat and hung it where the ship's environmental controls could dry it, movements careful, deliberate. His fingers felt stiff, slightly unresponsive, as though they belonged to someone else.
He set the vial on the desk beside his ledger, aligning it without thinking. The small, precise motion felt important, anchoring.
Then he sat on the edge of the bunk.
The act of lowering himself fully onto it took more effort than expected. When he lay back, the ceiling seemed to tilt, the lines of the panels slipping out of alignment for a heartbeat before settling again. His stomach rolled unpleasantly.
He opened his eyes immediately, breathing through the sensation until the world steadied.
This was more than fatigue.
His skin felt strangely sensitive, as though the nerves sat closer to the surface than usual. He could feel the fabric of his clothes too distinctly, seams pressing, air moving across exposed skin with exaggerated clarity. At the same time, a chill lingered beneath it all, stubborn and deep, resisting the warmth of the room.
He lay there longer than he intended, staring at the ceiling, counting the seams between panels as a grounding exercise. One. Two. Three. Four. The pattern repeated. The ship hummed on, indifferent.
Eventually, he pushed himself upright again.
Rysen's instructions echoed in his mind, unyielding.
Rest, then eat.
The mess was only a short walk away.
Soren stood slowly, waiting for the faint wave of dizziness to pass before trusting his legs. He dressed with care, movements economical, conserving energy without fully acknowledging why. When he splashed water on his face, he winced at the shock of coolness against skin that felt overly warm, almost flushed.
The corridor outside blurred slightly at the edges as he stepped into it.
He kept his gaze forward, focusing on the familiar landmarks—the curve of the wall, the junction ahead, the light panels overhead. His steps felt heavier now, each one requiring conscious effort to place and lift.
By the time he reached the mess, the effort of walking had begun to tell.
The space was quieter than earlier cycles, most of the crew having already eaten. The warmth hit him immediately, along with the lingering smell of food—bread, broth, something faintly sweet. Instead of sparking appetite, it made his stomach twist unpleasantly.
Nell looked up when he entered.
Her smile faded almost instantly.
"Soren," she said, standing. "You look awful."
He attempted a smile and failed, the expression collapsing into something closer to a grimace. "I feel worse than that."
She crossed the space between them in two strides, one hand coming up to rest briefly against his arm. The contact sent a small jolt of awareness through him; her palm felt cool against skin that was suddenly too warm.
"You're burning up," she said.
"It's just a chill," Soren replied automatically.
She snorted. "No one says that when it's just a chill."
She guided him to a seat without asking, her grip firm but careful. He let himself be directed, lowering into the chair with a controlled slowness that did nothing to hide how drained he felt.
A cup of water appeared in his hands, then a bowl of something warm he hadn't noticed being there. Steam curled up, carrying a mild, comforting scent.
"Eat," Nell said. "Or at least pretend."
Soren managed a few spoonfuls before nausea surged sharply enough to make him stop. He set the bowl aside, swallowing hard as his stomach clenched.
Nell crouched slightly to meet his eye. "How long has this been going on?"
"Since last cycle," he admitted. "I didn't sleep. Got caught in the rain."
Her expression shifted, concern overtaking frustration. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."
"I know," he said. And he meant it.
A tremor ran through him then, subtle but undeniable, starting somewhere deep in his chest and radiating outward. His hands tightened reflexively around the cup to keep it from spilling.
"That's it," Nell said. "You're done being stubborn."
"I'm not—"
She shook her head. "Don't argue. You don't have the energy."
She stood and flagged down a passing crew member, murmuring something Soren didn't catch. The sounds in the mess seemed too loud now, voices overlapping uncomfortably, the clink of metal against metal sharp against his ears.
The pressure behind his eyes surged again, this time accompanied by a wave of dizziness that made the room tilt more noticeably.
Nell was suddenly back at his side, her hand firm against his shoulder. "Easy."
"I think—" Soren started, then stopped as his stomach lurched violently.
"Quarters," Nell said decisively. "Now."
He didn't argue this time.
By the time they reached the corridor, his steps had slowed to a shuffle, each one requiring conscious effort. His skin felt flushed, heat radiating off him in a way that no longer felt manageable. Sweat prickled along his spine despite the cooler air.
This was no longer something he could dismiss.
This was no longer controlled.
The ship hummed on around them, systems balanced, parameters intact.
Soren, bent slightly forward as he walked, finally allowed himself to acknowledge what his body had been insisting on since the night before.
He was sick.
__________________________
The corridor swayed more on the way back.
Not violently—not enough to draw attention from anyone else passing by—but enough that Soren felt each step as an act of negotiation rather than motion. His boots landed fractionally off-beat, his balance correcting a moment too late each time.
Nell noticed.
She stayed close, her hand firm around his forearm now, no longer hovering, no longer optional. When his shoulder dipped unexpectedly, she tightened her grip without comment, absorbing the weight as if it were expected.
"Slow down," she said quietly.
"I am," Soren replied, though even to his own ears the words sounded thin.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
He adjusted his pace, or tried to. The corridor lights seemed too bright, their edges slightly blurred, and the hum of the Aurelius pressed against his ears with an intensity that made it hard to separate one sound from another.
His skin felt wrong—too hot beneath his clothes, yet prickled with cold along his spine.
"This is stupid," he muttered.
Nell didn't answer that. She guided him around a corner, her steps confident, familiar with the path. When they reached his quarters, she keyed the door open before he could fumble for the panel himself.
Inside, the air felt warmer immediately, enclosed and still.
Soren barely made it two steps before his knees buckled slightly.
Nell caught him.
"Hey," she said sharply, bracing him with both hands now. "That's enough."
"I didn't—" He swallowed hard as nausea surged. "I didn't fall."
"You nearly did."
She maneuvered him toward the bunk, movements efficient and practiced, like someone who had shepherded stubborn people through illness before. Soren let himself be guided, lowering onto the edge of the bed with a controlled slowness that fooled no one.
The moment he leaned back, the ceiling tilted violently.
He groaned softly and squeezed his eyes shut, breathing shallowly until the sensation passed.
Nell crouched in front of him, her brow furrowed. "You're burning up."
"It's just—" He stopped as another wave of dizziness rolled through him. "Just fatigue."
"No," she said. "This is past fatigue."
She pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead, then to his neck. Her expression tightened. "You're hot. And clammy."
"That's contradictory," Soren said faintly.
"So is pretending you're fine," she shot back.
She stood abruptly and moved to the desk, spotting the small glass vial Rysen had given him earlier. She picked it up, turning it between her fingers.
"What's this?"
"Rysen," Soren said. "In case."
"In case of what?"
He hesitated. "Escalation."
Nell exhaled sharply. "Of course."
She set the vial down again and turned back to him. "Lie down. Properly."
"I don't need—"
"Soren." She said his name the way one did when patience had run out. "Stop."
That did it.
He lay back, movements careful, though even then his stomach lurched unpleasantly. Nell was there immediately, a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Breathe," she said. "Just breathe."
He tried. Each breath scraped against his throat, which felt raw now, swollen, as though he'd swallowed sand. His chest felt tight, not painfully, but insistently, like something pressing inward from all sides.
Nell adjusted the blanket over him, then reached for a cloth, dampening it before pressing it gently to his forehead. The coolness cut through the heat there, drawing a small, involuntary shiver from him.
"That's it," she murmured. "I've got you."
Time blurred—not cleanly, but unevenly.
Heat. Then cold. The faint rattle of breath in his chest. The ache behind his eyes grew heavier, spreading outward until it felt like it filled his entire skull.
At some point, Nell straightened and tapped her comm.
"I need Rysen," she said without preamble. "Now."
There was a brief pause, then: "On my way."
Soren cracked his eyes open. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes," Nell said firmly. "I did."
Rysen arrived quickly.
The door slid open and he stepped inside with purpose, medical kit already in hand. One glance at Soren on the bunk was enough for his expression to sharpen into focused assessment.
"Alright," Rysen said. "Let's see."
He knelt beside the bed, movements calm, controlled. He pressed his fingers to Soren's wrist, then to his neck, watching carefully.
"Fever's climbing," he muttered. "Dehydrated. Exhausted."
"I told you," Nell said.
Rysen nodded once. "You did."
Soren tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. The room spun violently, nausea surging.
Rysen steadied him instantly. "Nope. Stay down."
"I'm fine," Soren said automatically.
Rysen ignored that. He opened the kit, removing instruments with practiced efficiency, his touch cool and precise as he worked.
"You went out in the rain," Rysen said.
"Yes."
"And didn't sleep."
"Yes."
"And continued operating as if none of that mattered."
Soren closed his eyes. "Apparently."
Rysen didn't smile. "You're human. This is what happens."
A tremor ran through Soren's body, stronger this time, teeth chattering faintly despite the heat radiating from his skin.
"There," Rysen said quietly. "That's the line."
He uncapped a vial and held it to Soren's lips. "Drink."
Soren complied, swallowing the liquid with a faint grimace as it burned its way down. He exhaled shakily afterward, the chills easing just enough to register.
Footsteps sounded in the doorway.
Cassian appeared first, arms crossed, irritation warring with concern. Everett stood just behind him—and in his hands was Soren's ledger.
"I told you he'd do this," Cassian said.
Everett stepped inside, gaze flicking from Soren to Rysen. "How bad?"
"Manageable," Rysen replied. "If he stops fighting it."
Everett nodded, already shifting into logistics. "He won't be writing."
Soren opened his eyes. "I can still—"
"No," Everett said gently. "You can't."
He held up the ledger slightly. "I'll keep it current."
Something twisted sharply in Soren's chest. "That's my—"
"Record," Everett finished. "And records exist to outlast the recorder."
The room went quiet.
The door opened again.
Atticus entered.
He took in the scene in a single glance—Soren on the bunk, Nell at his side, Rysen kneeling with the medical kit, Cassian rigid near the wall, Everett holding the ledger.
His expression did not change.
But his shoulders tightened, just slightly.
"How bad?" Atticus asked.
"Moderate fever," Rysen said. "Exhaustion. Exposure. No complications yet."
Atticus nodded. His gaze settled on Soren.
"You should have stopped."
Soren swallowed. "Yes, sir."
Atticus did not soften the formality.
"You are relieved of duty," he said. "Effective immediately."
Soren tensed. "I don't want—"
"I know," Atticus said quietly.
The words were not unkind.
They were final.
Atticus turned to the others. "Rysen, you oversee his care."
"Yes, sir."
"Nell, stay with him."
She nodded immediately. "I will."
"Everett," Atticus continued, "maintain the record."
Everett inclined his head. "Already doing so."
Cassian shifted. "I'll check in."
Atticus nodded once, then looked back at Soren.
"Rest," he said. "That is an order."
Then he turned and left.
The room felt smaller after he was gone.
Rysen adjusted the cloth on Soren's forehead, movements careful. Nell stayed seated beside him, her hand resting firmly over his.
Soren closed his eyes, exhaustion finally overwhelming resistance.
For the first time since the corridor began, he could not choose how much help he accepted.
Care had arrived.
And it was staying.
_________________________