Soren opened his eyes.
Light had changed while they were closed—not dramatically, not all at once, but enough that the difference registered immediately. Dawn had arrived in full, spreading itself across the sky in soft layers rather than sharp divisions. Pale gold filtered through thin cloud cover, and between those bands, faint streaks of pink lingered like impressions rather than color, as if the sky had not fully decided what it wanted to be yet.
He stayed where he was for a moment longer, seated cross-legged against the rail, letting the sensation of it settle. The exterior walkway was cool beneath him, the metal holding the last of the night's chill. Wind moved across the hull in steady currents, no longer tugging or shifting unpredictably, but flowing with a quiet consistency that made it easy to forget how long it had been sustained.
Below him—beneath the layers of reinforced plating and structural supports—the Aurelius moved as it always did. Smooth. Balanced. Present. He could feel it through the rail where his back rested, through the faint vibration that never fully disappeared, only softened or sharpened depending on where one stood. The ship was awake now. More awake than it had been hours earlier.
Crew movement had increased.
He could hear it before he saw it. Footsteps echoed more frequently along interior corridors that opened briefly to the exterior through narrow observation panels. Doors cycled with greater regularity. Voices carried in low tones, not loud enough to intrude, but enough to mark the shift from suspended quiet to purposeful motion. Morning had arrived whether anyone acknowledged it or not.
Soren unfolded his legs and stretched, arms lifting overhead in a slow, deliberate motion. His shoulders rolled once, then again, working out the lingering stiffness that came from remaining still too long rather than from exertion. He stood and stepped closer to the rail, placing both hands against it.
The metal was cool beneath his palms.
He rested there, leaning forward slightly, eyes on the horizon. The sky was brighter now, though still muted, the light diffused by cloud cover rather than direct exposure. The Aurelius cut through it without visible resistance, its passage so steady that it made the shifting sky feel like a backdrop rather than a force.
Soren let himself linger.
Not in the way he sometimes did—caught, immobile, waiting for something unnamed—but in a quieter sense. Simply present. The wind moved around him, brushing against his sleeves, curling briefly near his ear before moving on. It did not insist. It did not pull at his attention. It was just there.
Eventually, the decision to move formed without urgency.
He straightened and turned back toward the hatch, retracing the familiar path with unhurried steps. When he keyed the panel, the door opened with a controlled sigh, sealing the exterior behind him as he stepped inside.
The interior corridor greeted him with warmer air and layered sound. The Aurelius's hum was more pronounced here, no longer filtered by open space. It resonated through the walls and floor, a constant presence that anchored movement and thought alike. Overhead lighting adjusted automatically as he passed beneath it, brightening incrementally to match the time cycle.
Soren's stride was steadier than it had been the day before.
Not faster. Not more deliberate. Simply more grounded. Each step landed with a single, clear sound rather than the faint hesitation he had not fully noticed until it was gone. His boots struck the deck with a muted clump that echoed once and then dissolved into the ambient noise of the ship.
He passed a system junction without turning, the intersection opening briefly to his left and right before narrowing again. As he did, a figure moved along the upper deck walkway above—Marcell, slate tucked under one arm, loose sheets of paper held in his other hand. His pace was brisk, posture upright, attention already directed elsewhere.
Soren registered the sight and continued on.
Atticus must be awake in his office now.
The thought surfaced unbidden, then was just as quickly set aside. He did not slow. He did not look back. The corridor carried him forward, and he let it.
Crew members passed him at intervals. A pair of engineers moved in the opposite direction, voices low as they discussed something technical enough that he caught only fragments. Further down, a small group clustered briefly near a recessed board, checking schedules before dispersing again. The ship was settling into its daytime rhythm, each role sliding into place without visible friction.
Then something tumbled across the floor.
The sound was light but distinct—a quick clatter followed by a short roll before it came to rest near his boot. Soren stopped and looked down.
A screwdriver lay on its side, handle scuffed from use.
He blinked once, then glanced down the corridor in both directions. No one was immediately nearby. The tool must have fallen from someone's pocket or been set down and forgotten in the rush of the shift change. It was odd, perhaps, but not unreasonable. The Aurelius was large. Small oversights happened.
Soren bent and picked it up, turning it once in his hand. The weight was familiar. Balanced. Well-used.
He considered where it should go.
The tools and mechanics area—no, that wasn't quite right. Storage. Lower deck. Near the supply storage room. A sort of shared space, more practical than formal, where equipment cycled in and out depending on need. He pictured the location without recalling its exact designation and decided it could wait.
For now, he would bring it with him and return it later.
He continued on toward his quarters, the screwdriver resting lightly in his grip. When he reached his door, the number panel read 27. He keyed the passcode without conscious effort, fingers moving in a pattern long since committed to muscle memory.
The door slid open.
Inside, the quarters were quiet and unchanged. The space was modest but efficient, designed to accommodate rest rather than encourage occupation. The hum of the Aurelius was present here too, softened by reinforced panels until it felt less like sound and more like a constant condition.
Soren stepped inside and let the door seal behind him.
He crossed to the desk and set the screwdriver down carefully, aligning it parallel to the edge without quite meaning to. The metal clicked softly against the surface.
For a moment, he stood there, looking at it.
The pause stretched just long enough to be noticeable. His gaze lingered on the worn handle, the slight discoloration near the base where fingers had pressed countless times. Thoughts stirred at the edges of his awareness—unformed, insistent enough to register but not enough to take shape.
He dismissed them.
Not with force. Simply by choosing not to follow where they threatened to lead. His eyes moved away. His attention shifted. He turned toward the wash area and began to undo the fastenings of his coat.
The shower activated with a low hiss as water heated and pressure stabilized. Steam rose almost immediately, fogging the narrow space as hot water cascaded down. Soren stepped beneath it and closed his eyes again, this time with intention.
Heat soaked into his shoulders and down his spine, loosening muscles he had not realized were still tense. Water ran over his hair and down his back, pooling briefly at his feet before draining away. The sound filled the quarters, a steady rush that drowned out the subtler noises of the ship.
He stood there and breathed.
The warmth was grounding. Immediate. It demanded nothing beyond presence. He adjusted the temperature slightly higher and let the spray strike the back of his neck, then his shoulders, then down along his arms. Each shift was deliberate, unhurried.
Minutes passed.
Steam thickened the air, clinging to his skin and blurring the edges of the room beyond the enclosure. The outside world receded, replaced by sensation—heat, pressure, the rhythm of water against tile. He leaned one hand against the wall and tilted his head forward, letting water stream over his hair and down his face.
There was no urgency to leave. No schedule pressing against him yet.
When he eventually reached for the control and shut the water off, the sudden quiet felt almost pronounced. Droplets clung to his skin, cooling slowly as the steam began to dissipate.
Soren remained there for a moment longer, eyes still closed, before reaching for a towel and stepping out.
The quarters felt different when he emerged—warmer, softer, as if the steam had settled into the space rather than fully dispersing. He toweled off methodically, movements precise and familiar, then reached for clean clothes.
By the time he dressed, the screwdriver on the desk had receded into the periphery of his awareness once more.
He did not look at it again.
_________________________
The fabric settled against his skin as he finished dressing, the clean weight of it familiar enough that he did not have to think about the fit. He adjusted the cuffs once, then stepped back into the main space of the quarters. The air still held a trace of warmth from the shower, softened by the steady circulation of the ship.
A knock sounded at the door.
It was neither sharp nor hesitant. Just firm enough to announce presence without intrusion.
Soren paused, then crossed the room. When he opened the door, Rysen stood on the other side, already dressed in his usual coat, the long lines of it hanging neatly from his shoulders. He looked as though he had been awake for some time—composed, alert, and prepared in the way that suggested readiness rather than urgency.
"Good morning," Rysen said.
"Morning," Soren replied, stepping aside. "Come in."
Rysen entered without comment, his gaze sweeping the room with practiced efficiency. Not searching, exactly. More like confirming. He stopped near the center, posture relaxed but attentive.
"I wanted to check on you," he said. "Before the day pulls you elsewhere."
Soren nodded. "I'm all right now."
Rysen's mouth curved slightly at that, not quite a smile. "That's what you said yesterday night."
"And it was true then too."
"True doesn't always mean complete," Rysen replied mildly. He gestured toward the desk. "May I?"
"Of course."
Rysen set his coat aside and moved closer, retrieving a compact scanner from an inner pocket. The device hummed softly as he activated it, its surface lighting up with muted indicators. He worked with quiet efficiency, taking readings without commentary, his attention focused but unhurried.
Soren stood where he was told, hands at his sides. The process was familiar enough that he barely registered it beyond the sensation of the scanner's proximity and the faint warmth it emitted.
Rysen's eyes flicked briefly to the readout. For a fraction of a second, something shifted there—uncertainty, perhaps, or calculation. It was gone almost immediately, replaced by the same steady composure he always carried.
"How does your head feel this morning?" he asked.
"Clearer," Soren said. "There's still a trace of pressure, but it's manageable."
"Any dizziness?"
"No."
Rysen nodded, making a brief notation on his slate. "That's consistent with what I'd expect."
He stepped back and deactivated the scanner. "I'd like you to take another pill after the morning meal."
Soren inclined his head. "All right."
"And if anything changes," Rysen continued, his tone even, "if the headaches return with greater intensity, or if you notice any disorientation—come find me. Or leave a message. Either is fine."
"I will."
Rysen held his gaze for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to add something else. Whatever thought crossed his mind did not linger.
"I'll walk with you," he said instead. "Part of the way."
Soren retrieved his ledger from the desk along with the blister pack of pills, slipping both into the inner pocket of his coat. They left the quarters together, the door sealing quietly behind them.
The corridor outside was busier now than it had been earlier. Crew members moved with purpose, conversations overlapping briefly before breaking apart again. The ship felt fully awake.
They walked side by side without haste.
"Did you manage any rest?" Rysen asked.
"A little," Soren replied. "I rested early, woke up in the middle of the night. But that was enough."
Rysen accepted that. "Sometimes it is."
They reached a junction where the corridor split—one path leading toward the mess, the other branching off toward the medical bay. Rysen slowed.
"I'll check in again later," he said. "Just to be sure."
Soren nodded. "Thank you."
Rysen gave him a brief look, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settled again. Then he turned and headed down the shorter route, his footsteps receding quickly.
Soren continued on alone.
The mess was already active when he arrived. The atmosphere had shifted from the subdued quiet of the early hours to something warmer, more communal. Voices overlapped in low conversation, punctuated by soft laughter. The scent of food hung in the air, richer than it had been during the night cycle.
As he stepped inside, a current of air curled briefly around his leg, brushing against his ankle before moving on. He noticed it without pausing.
He collected his meal and found a seat near the edge of the room, close enough to observe without being drawn into conversation. Just as before, the food tasted slightly different than usual—subtly altered, as though a spice ratio had been adjusted or an ingredient substituted. Not unpleasant. Just different.
He made a note of it mentally and moved on.
When he took out his ledger and pen, the familiar weight of them grounded him immediately. He opened to a fresh page and began to write.
|| Wind sustained. Directional flow remains consistent.
The words came easily. His hand moved with a steadiness that had been absent the day before, the pen gliding across the page without hesitation. He wrote about the increased crew activity, the shift in the ship's rhythm, the way the Aurelius continued to compensate smoothly.
Around him, the mess carried on—cups clinked softly, chairs scraped against the floor, a laugh rose and faded. None of it intruded on his focus. The wind moved through the ship's circulation systems with quiet persistence, a presence felt rather than heard.
Soren wrote until the page was filled, then turned it and continued.
His pen did not pause once.
When he finally looked up, the meal had cooled slightly, the mess no longer quite as crowded as it had been moments before. He closed the ledger gently, the decision made without conscious thought.
The day was underway.
And he was ready to move with it.
_________________________
The operations deck was already in full motion when Soren arrived.
The space carried a different density than the mess—tighter, more layered, its energy shaped by overlapping responsibilities rather than shared respite. Consoles glowed with shifting data streams. Slates were passed from hand to hand. Cassian, Everett and Elion already in place. Atticus stood at the center, listening. Voices moved in controlled currents, clipped and purposeful, rising only briefly when clarification was needed before settling again.
Soren crossed the threshold and approached the designated station without drawing attention to himself. He placed his ledger down, opened to the marked section, and waited.
Atticus stood near the central console, posture composed, one hand resting lightly against the edge as he reviewed a series of reports. His coat was immaculate, as always, the lines of it reinforcing the quiet authority he carried without needing to assert it. He finished reading, made a brief adjustment to the display, then turned.
"Go ahead," he said.
Soren delivered the report succinctly. Wind sustained. No structural strain. Crew redistribution functioning within projected parameters. He spoke evenly, without embellishment, his words fitting neatly into the operational rhythm of the deck.
Atticus listened without interruption. When Soren finished, he nodded once.
"That will be all," he said. "Thank you."
Soren inclined his head in acknowledgment and gathered his ledger. As he turned to leave, he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
Atticus was looking at him.
Not with scrutiny. Not with assessment. Just—looking.
The moment was brief. Atticus's gaze shifted away almost immediately, attention returning to the console as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The exchange passed without comment, without acknowledgment.
Soren stepped through the threshold and continued on.
Unbeknownst to him, his heart skipped a beat.
The corridor beyond the operations deck was quieter, the traffic thinning as roles diverged. He walked until he reached the alcove he had been drawn to more often lately—a recessed space along the upper deck where the foot traffic was lighter but the view remained open enough to observe the flow of the ship.
He sat and rested the ledger against his knee.
The Aurelius hummed beneath him, steady and reliable. Air moved through the corridor in a measured current, brushing lightly against his sleeve before continuing on its path. From here, he could see crew members pass at intervals, their movements purposeful but unhurried.
He opened the ledger.
At first, he simply read. Lines of observation, neatly recorded. Dates and times aligned. His handwriting was consistent, measured, familiar. He turned pages slowly, not searching for anything in particular.
Then he stopped.
He's once again at that page where the script on it is slightly different from the rest. Still his. Undeniably so. But slanted, rushed, the spacing tighter than usual.
He paused and touched the page with his finger, as though the contact might supply context his memory refused to provide. The paper was smooth beneath his skin, warm from the contact of his hand.
He flipped back.
Here, the handwriting shifted again—Everett's, unmistakable in its angular precision. Soren recognized it immediately. These were the entries made during his illness, when Everett had taken over the ledger with careful fidelity. The distinction was clear. Intentional.
He flipped forward once more.
Another page.
This one was his again. The handwriting matched. The structure was sound. Nothing about it was overtly wrong.
Except for a single word.
Feel.
Soren frowned faintly.
He did not recall using that word in this context. The ledger was meant to be observational. External. A record of conditions and responses, not an internal account. Not a memoir in the personal sense.
His fingers stilled.
The word sat there as though it belonged, integrated seamlessly into the line, yet it resisted the surrounding text. He could not recall writing it. Could not recall the moment or state that would have prompted it.
He drew a slow breath.
A soft thump echoed down the corridor, snapping his attention away from the page. He looked up, eyes following the sound to its source.
Nothing unusual presented itself.
Then a familiar set of footsteps approached—light but grounding, their rhythm distinct enough that he recognized them before he saw her.
"Elion," he said, lifting his hand in greeting as she came into view.
She smiled and returned the gesture, slate tucked under one arm. "I thought that was you."
She stopped near the alcove, glancing briefly at the open ledger before returning her attention to him. "I heard you weren't feeling well yesterday. How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine," Soren replied. "Better than yesterday."
She studied him for a moment, not intrusively, but with the kind of quiet attention that suggested genuine concern. "You still look a little pale."
He accepted the observation without defensiveness. "I suppose I am."
Elion tilted her head slightly. "Just… listen to your body, all right? When it asks for rest, give it what it needs."
"I will."
They spoke for a while longer after that—about routine matters, about small adjustments being made along the upper deck, about the way the ship seemed to be settling after days of sustained adaptation. The conversation flowed easily, neither of them rushing it.
Eventually, Elion glanced down at her slate. "I should find Everett. There's something we need to coordinate before the next cycle."
"Of course," Soren said.
She nodded once more, then turned and continued down the corridor, her footsteps fading into the ambient sound of the ship.
Soren remained seated.
The ledger lay open across his lap, the words feel no longer in his direct line of sight but not forgotten either. The Aurelius continued on around him, systems compensating, crew moving, the wind sustained.
He did not close the ledger.
He did not write.
He simply sat, listening, as the ship carried him forward.
_________________________