Soren woke before the ship fully transitioned into morning cycle.
Not abruptly. Not with urgency. Just earlier than usual, awareness surfacing in layers rather than a single rise. The Aurelius hummed beneath him with its familiar steadiness, the sound so constant it bordered on silence. Dim light traced the edges of his quarters as the ship adjusted, dawn-filtered illumination bleeding in through the corridor seams.
He lay still for a moment longer than necessary, eyes open, breathing even.
Nothing pressed at him. No sharp recollection, no lingering echo of sound. Only the low, sustained rhythm of the ship and the faint sense that remaining in bed would serve no purpose. That was reason enough.
He rose, washed, dressed.
The water in the washroom ran warm, grounding without being indulgent. He let it rinse over him until his thoughts aligned again into their usual order—observations stacked neatly, nothing demanding priority. By the time he stepped back into his quarters, the sense of internal balance had returned.
He keyed the door open and stepped into the corridor.
The quarters deck was quiet at this hour, the air cool and faintly metallic. Lights brightened incrementally as he passed, responding to motion with practiced precision. His footsteps echoed softly, absorbed almost immediately by the Aurelius' layered structure.
Atticus' door was near the front of the corridor, its placement deliberate—accessible, visible, never recessed. The door slid open just as Soren drew near.
They paused, almost in sync.
Atticus looked… different, in the subtle way that only registered because Soren had known him long enough to recognize deviations. His coat was unfastened, collar loose, hair less precisely arranged than usual. Dawn softened the lines of his posture, stripped away some of the formality he carried so instinctively.
"Soren," Atticus said, voice even, unhurried.
"Captain," Soren replied.
Neither moved on immediately.
The corridor hummed around them, quiet but not empty. Somewhere farther down the deck, a door slid open, then closed again. The ship breathed.
"You're up early," Atticus observed. Not a question.
"So are you."
A corner of Atticus' mouth lifted, faint but unmistakable. "Old habits."
They fell into step together without discussion, their paths already aligned toward the forward junction. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was not weighted; it simply existed, a shared space that did not require filling.
"How are you feeling?" Atticus asked eventually, tone casual, eyes forward.
"Fine," Soren answered without hesitation. "Just… awake."
Atticus nodded once, accepting the response as it was given. "The ship seems to prefer early risers today."
Soren glanced toward the curved viewport at the end of the corridor, where faint light hinted at the sky beyond. "It's steady," he said. "Consistent."
"Mm." Atticus slowed slightly, then looked over. "Walk with me?"
Outside the hull.
Soren had already intended to head that way. The impulse had been present since waking, quiet but persistent. He inclined his head. "Alright."
They passed through the access door together. The transition was immediate—the interior hum giving way to open air, wind greeting them in a sustained rush rather than a gust. Dawn spread across the sky in muted gradients: pale gold threading through deep blue, the horizon still holding onto night.
The wind pressed against them, mid-intensity and constant, tugging at coats and hair without aggression. The Aurelius held steady beneath it all, vast and unmoving despite the currents that wrapped around its hull.
They stepped forward—and something fell.
Metal scraped sharply against metal, a sudden clatter breaking the quiet. A length of secured cabling or rigging hardware dropped from above, dislodged by the wind's pull. It fell fast, angling toward Soren's shoulder—
Atticus moved without hesitation.
He reached out and caught it mid-fall, the impact jolting through his arm as the metal knocked against his forearm before he redirected it safely to the deck. The sound rang out, sharp but contained.
"Soren," Atticus said immediately, turning. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," Soren answered, already stepping back, eyes tracking the object now resting harmlessly at their feet. His pulse had jumped—but it steadied just as quickly. "I'm fine."
A crew member rushed over from farther along the hull, breath quick, expression tight with apology. "Captain—my fault. I should've locked the fastener before stepping away. I'll secure it immediately."
Atticus studied them for a brief moment longer than necessary. Then he nodded. "See that you do."
"Yes, Captain."
The crew member moved off at once, hands already reaching for the equipment. The wind carried the sound of metal clicking back into place, the Aurelius absorbing the correction without comment.
Atticus exhaled slowly, then looked back at Soren. "You sure?"
Soren met his gaze. "Yes."
Another nod. "Good."
They continued on, stopping near the railing. The wind tugged insistently now, pressing close, threading through the space between them. Atticus rested his hands against the rail, posture relaxed in a way Soren rarely saw outside moments like this.
For a while, they simply stood.
The sky brightened incrementally, the first true rays of sunlight cresting the horizon. The wind shifted direction slightly, then settled again, its rhythm unchanged.
"Do you ever get used to this?" Atticus asked quietly. "The scale of it."
Soren followed his line of sight. The sky, the ship, the endless currents beyond. "Not entirely," he said. "But I don't think you're meant to."
Atticus considered that. "No. Probably not."
They spoke of small things then—things that did not belong to schedules or forecasts, that did not ask to be measured.
Atticus leaned his weight more comfortably against the railing, gaze following the slow shift of light along the horizon. "I saw a sunrise like this once," he said after a moment. "Years ago. Different vessel. Different sky. It looked nothing like this."
Soren glanced toward him. "But it feels similar."
Atticus nodded, a faint acknowledgment rather than agreement. "Yes. That part hasn't changed."
The wind moved between them, steady, present but not intrusive. Soren listened as Atticus spoke—not at length, not with intention—just fragments. A memory of colder air. Of a longer silence. Of standing somewhere unfamiliar and knowing, inexplicably, that the ship would hold.
Soren offered the occasional response, brief and unforced. A comment here. A quiet acknowledgment there. The conversation didn't build toward anything. It didn't need to. It unfolded in its own time, without direction, without purpose beyond the act of sharing the space.
For a while, that was enough.
It felt… anchored.
When Atticus eventually straightened, the moment shifted naturally, without friction. "I should head back in."
Soren nodded. "I'll stay a bit longer."
"Alright." Atticus hesitated, then added, "Don't stay out too long."
"I won't."
Atticus gave him a final look—steady, assessing in a way that felt familiar rather than invasive—then turned and headed back inside.
Soren remained at the railing.
Atticus's footsteps receded behind him, absorbed by the muted threshold of the hull door, and then there was only the wind again—present, insistent, moving past him as though nothing else had occurred.
The sky was beginning to shift.
Not abruptly. Not yet sunrise. Just the earliest thinning of darkness, the horizon loosening its hold on night. A pale band of color stretched low and distant, caught between deep blue and something warmer beneath it. The clouds above reflected the change unevenly, some catching the light, others still holding shadow.
Soren rested his forearms lightly against the railing.
The wind pressed in steady layers, neither increasing nor easing, but it felt different now—less diffuse, more directional. It moved along the hull in long, continuous streams, occasionally curling upward before settling again. For a moment—only a moment—it seemed to pause, as if the air itself had drawn a breath.
Then it continued.
He noted it without comment.
Below him, the Aurelius responded as it always did: subtle structural adjustments, barely perceptible vibrations traveling through the rail beneath his hands. The ship held its course. The systems compensated. Nothing strained.
A crew member crossed the exterior platform some distance away, moving with practiced ease, harness secured, attention focused elsewhere. The rhythm of motion remained intact. The wind did not disrupt it.
Soren stayed until the light had shifted enough to register as morning.
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When he turned back toward the hull, the transition was smooth. The door sealed behind him with a familiar hush, and the internal lighting adjusted automatically—softening, warming, easing the eyes from exterior glare into interior calm.
The corridor carried him forward without resistance.
Foot traffic was still light. Early mess hours. The quiet stretch between shifts where the ship felt suspended between tempos. Soren moved through it with the same measured pace, neither hurried nor lingering, allowing the environment to settle around him.
The mess was already open.
A handful of crew occupied scattered tables, movements subdued, voices low. The air carried the faint scent of brewed coffee and warm grain. Systems overhead hummed softly, ventilation steady.
Soren collected his meal without exchange—coffee, something simple—and took a seat along the side, where the lighting fell less directly. He ate without distraction, gaze occasionally lifting to note the flow of the room.
Nothing unusual.
When he finished, he retrieved his ledger from his coat and opened it on the table.
The pen moved almost immediately.
|| Wind conditions sustained at mid-range intensity.
|| Directional flow remains stable along hull exterior.
|| Structural response consistent. No lag observed.
He paused briefly, then continued.
|| Morning cycle transition smooth.
|| Crew movement efficient. No disruptions noted.
Another line followed, more measured.
|| Ambient air pressure within interior corridors marginally denser than prior cycles. Adjustment within tolerance.
He reread the entry once, then added a final note.
|| Ship maintains equilibrium.
The words felt adequate.
Soren closed the ledger, resting his palm against its cover for a moment before returning it to his coat. Around him, the mess continued its quiet cadence—chairs shifting, footsteps passing, low conversation rising and falling without drawing focus.
He stood.
The route toward the operations deck unfolded as it always did, a familiar sequence of corridors and junctions. Lighting brightened incrementally as he ascended, the hum of systems layering subtly, the presence of the Aurelius constant beneath it all.
As he moved, he remained aware of the wind—not directly, but through its effects. The way the ship held tension. The way vibrations traveled and settled. The way nothing, at present, demanded correction.
By the time he reached the upper level, the day had fully begun.
Soren adjusted his pace as the operations deck came into view, posture aligning with the rhythm of work ahead. The doors stood open, voices audible within—not raised, not urgent.
Inside the operations deck, the rhythm held.
Reports flowed in their usual sequence—measured, unhurried. Wind projections remained within expected variance. Structural tolerances continued to self-correct without intervention. No anomalies rose to the surface long enough to warrant pause.
Soren listened, contributed when prompted. His notes aligned cleanly with the displays. Nothing resisted classification. Nothing demanded escalation.
Normal.
By the time the discussion concluded, the deck had filled with the quiet efficiency of motion resuming—chairs shifting back, personnel dispersing to their assigned paths. The day advanced without friction.
Soren exits the operations deck, posture settling back into its familiar cadence as the corridors carried him onward.
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By the time the afternoon settled into the ship, the Aurelius had found a steady cadence again.
Soren moved through the mid-deck with the familiarity of routine guiding him more than conscious intent. The corridors here were brighter than the lower levels, light filtering in through narrow panels that shifted hue as the sun arced higher. Foot traffic ebbed and flowed in predictable patterns—crews exchanging brief words, others passing in silence, hands full, eyes forward.
He matched their pace without effort.
Nothing required his immediate attention. No alerts flickered across the recessed panels. The air circulated evenly, its presence noticeable only in the way it brushed against fabric, hair, skin—constant, regulated, unobtrusive.
Normal.
When his path carried him downward, the transition was gradual. The stairwell curved, the hum of the Aurelius deepening as he descended. The lower deck greeted him with its familiar character: narrower corridors, thicker air, the subtle resonance of systems working closer to their source.
Soren adjusted without thinking.
He was halfway through the perimeter when it happened.
The air shifted.
Not a surge—not a fault. A brief, localized movement, curling low along the floor. It traced a narrow arc around his boots, lifted just enough to stir the hem of his trousers before dissipating entirely.
Gone.
Soren slowed, stopping without fully registering the decision to do so.
The corridor ahead looked unchanged. Panels steady. No visible pressure fluctuation. No audible alert. The air returned to its neutral flow, indistinguishable from moments before.
He stood there for a breath longer than necessary.
It reminded him of something.
The memory surfaced without invitation: the same section of corridor, the same low resonance beneath his feet. Bram.
Soren exhaled.
That had been addressed. Recorded. Resolved. Bram had been escorted to medical care. The incident logged as isolated. Recovery expected.
Still.
His gaze drifted toward the recessed crew rotation board near the junction ahead. The panel glowed softly, cycling through assignments and shifts. Names scrolled in clean columns, updated in real time.
He stopped in front of it.
His eyes moved down the list once.
Then again.
Bram's name was not there.
Soren dismissed the thoughts that threaten to arise.
He lingered anyway, the faint hum of the ship threading through his awareness. The sense of steadiness he usually carried felt… thinner here. Not unstable. Just less anchored than he believed it to be.
After a moment, he stepped away from the panel and moved up the stairs towards the quarters wing mid-deck.
Room 2 was near the end of the corridor.
The lighting dimmed subtly as he approached, the air cooling by degrees too small to measure but easy to feel. His footsteps sounded louder here, each one echoing faintly before being absorbed by the structure.
He slowed.
The door came into view—unremarkable, sealed, its surface unmarked except for the small designation plate beside it.
2
Soren stopped in front of it.
He hesitated.
He wasn't certain what he expected to find. Or what he would say if the door opened. The possibilities arranged themselves neatly in his mind, each one reasonable, each one manageable.
He raised his hand.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound was firm but controlled, the vibration traveling briefly through his knuckles before fading.
He waited.
Nothing answered. No movement from within. No shift in pressure. No sound beyond the distant hum of the Aurelius.
He knocked again.
The pause afterward felt longer.
His heartbeat skipped—once.
He told himself it was anticipation. A physiological response, nothing more.
Another second passed.
His heartbeat skipped again.
For a fraction of a moment, his hand trembled.
The motion was slight—barely more than a quiver in his fingers before he stilled them. It surprised him enough that he noticed it at all.
He lowered his hand.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Soren turned as a door several spaces down the corridor slid open. Room 6. Carden stepped out, adjusting the sleeve of his uniform as he did. He looked up, registering Soren's presence with mild curiosity.
His gaze shifted to the door marked 2.
Then back to Soren.
"No one rests in that room," Carden said, not unkindly. "Who are you searching for?"
Soren blinked once.
For a brief instant, he considered the possibility that he had misunderstood Nell. That he had misremembered. That he was standing in the wrong place for reasons that made sense if he examined them closely enough.
"Bram," he said.
Carden frowned, confusion settling across his features.
"Who are you talking about?"
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