Soren woke before the second bell.
For a moment he didn't move—listening to the Aurelius breathe around him. The engine hummed in a low, even rhythm, steadier than when he'd first boarded. The vibration under the mattress was soft enough that it almost felt like a heartbeat.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms until the joints loosened. The cabin was dim; the lamps had lowered themselves automatically during the night cycle. Only a faint blue glow seeped from under the door, marking the shift change somewhere down the corridor.
Everett's bunk was empty.
Soren wasn't surprised. The navigator kept a schedule that didn't seem bound by normal hours. He could have been asleep on the observation walkway for all Soren knew.
Soren washed his face, dressed, and checked his satchel. The memoir was right where he'd left it, edges neat, pages still crisp.
He paused before slipping it inside, fingers brushing the cover.
Then he closed the buckles and stepped into the corridor.
___________________________________________________________________________
The hallway was livelier than he expected.
Crew members walked in two directions, some heading toward the mess hall, others toward their duty stations. Boots clicked against metal; someone yawned loudly; someone else was humming a tune Soren recognized from childhood.
He fell into step behind a pair of mechanics discussing a stuck valve.
By the time he reached the main deck, the ship was in full morning rhythm.
The lighting had brightened, casting soft gold across the consoles. A faint aroma drifted in from the mess—something warm, maybe grain porridge or spiced bread.
Tamsin Crowe was already at her post, posture rigid as she updated a new set of manifests. Her handwriting moved quickly across the page, sharp strokes forming exact characters.
"Morning," she said without looking up.
Soren blinked. "Good morning."
A grunt echoed from beneath the nearest console. Bram slid out, wiping his hands on a cloth already stained with grease.
"You're up early," he said, pushing his hair back with his wrist. "Didn't take you for a dawn person."
"I didn't sleep very late," Soren replied.
"That'll change."
Bram stood, stretching his arms behind him until something popped. "First week on a long-range ship messes with your sense of time. Don't worry. Eventually you'll sleep through anything, even this beast's tantrums."
As if on cue, a low rumble rolled through the deck. Bram tapped the console lightly, as if reassuring it.
"See?" he said. "That's her saying good morning."
Soren gave a polite nod. "I suppose that's one way to hear it."
Bram grinned. "You'll get there."
He returned to the console, humming off-key.
___________________________________________________________________________
A few steps away, a tall man was sorting through a box of medical supplies. He looked to be in his late thirties—broad-shouldered, with a calm, steady presence that reminded Soren faintly of the quiet corners of the archive.
He lifted a folded cloth from the crate, inspected it, set it aside, then reached for another.
Soren hesitated before approaching.
"Morning," he said softly.
The man looked up.
His expression brightened not in surprise but in recognition. "Good morning. You're Soren Eryndor, yes?"
"Yes. You're… Mr. Hart?"
"Ivor," he corrected with a small, warm smile. "No need for formalities unless the captain's looking."
Soren nodded.
"What are you organizing?" he asked.
Ivor lifted a small tin of salve. "Medical rations for the week. Better to check everything early rather than scramble when someone cuts their hand open on a loose bolt."
"Does that happen often?" Soren asked.
"Often enough," Ivor said. "This ship is older than half the crew. She's sturdy, but she has her moods."
That seemed to be a sentiment shared by the entire engineering team.
Ivor closed the crate and tied the rope around it neatly. "If you need anything—bandages, tonic, tea that doesn't taste like engine fumes—come find me. Medical bay is two levels down, right side of the corridor, third door."
"I will," Soren said. "Thank you."
"Anytime," Ivor replied before lifting the crate with surprising ease and carrying it away.
Soren watched him go.
The morning shift continued around him, more organized than the night before but still busy in a way he was learning to understand. The crew didn't stop moving; they simply changed pace depending on the hour.
Everyone seemed to know precisely where they were needed.
Soren wasn't sure yet where he fit into that flow.
But he wasn't anxious about it the way he had been yesterday.
He had a place, even if he hadn't fully stepped into it yet.
___________________________________________________________________________
The mess hall was already half full.
Light streamed in through a high porthole, turning the steam rising from pots and bowls into a soft haze. The air smelled of warm grains, broth, and something peppery.
Soren took a tray, served himself a modest portion, and found a seat at one of the long tables.
Across the hall, the command table was occupied.
Atticus sat at the center, posture straight, quietly reviewing a thin stack of reports. Cassian Wolfe sat beside him, arms folded neatly, eyes moving steadily across the hall. He gave no sign of judging, yet nothing seemed to escape his attention.
Marcell Dayne sat on Atticus's other side, already halfway through his meal, occasionally leaning slightly to murmur something to the captain. Atticus listened without looking up from the page.
The three of them looked… synchronized. Not stiff, not formal—just accustomed to occupying that space together.
The rest of the room flowed around them.
Nell rushed in from the corridor, balancing a stack of plates. He nearly collided with Bram, who had inexplicably appeared behind him carrying an entire pot of something.
"Nell," Tamsin called from a nearby table, "you forgot the inventory tags for the morning delivery."
Nell groaned dramatically. "Can we pretend that didn't happen?"
"No."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
Soren watched the exchange with mild amusement. He was beginning to understand their rhythm: Tamsin's sharpness, Nell's scatterbrained warmth, Bram's blunt commentary, Liora's quiet focus, Everett's precision.
They bickered, but there was nothing unsteady about it. It was simply how they worked.
Soren took a slow bite of his breakfast.
It was hearty—slightly sweet grains cooked in broth, topped with a drizzle of something savory and unfamiliar. Not bad. Better than he expected from ship rations.
He ate quietly, listening to the scattered conversations around him.
Someone debated the best way to organize spare parts.
Someone else recounted how the engine had stalled on a different voyage.
Someone laughed loudly at a joke Soren had missed entirely.
He didn't mind.
Listening was part of his work.
___________________________________________________________________________
When he finished eating, he returned his tray and turned toward the exit.
Before he reached it, a voice called—firm but not unkind.
"Memoirist."
Soren turned.
Marcell Dayne approached, steps steady, expression neutral but not cold. He carried a cup of tea in one hand.
"Good morning," Marcell said. "How's your first full day treating you?"
Soren straightened. "I'm still learning the layout."
"You'll have it memorized by the end of the week," Marcell said. "The ship repeats itself. Once you've walked one loop, you've walked them all."
Soren nodded. "That seems to be true."
Marcell studied him for a moment.
"You seem calm," he observed.
"I'm adjusting," Soren said.
"Good." Marcell sipped his tea. "If you need clarification on any protocol, ask me or the captain. Or Elion, if it's about navigation. But don't let yourself drift without directions."
"I won't," Soren said.
"See that you don't."
Marcell gave a short nod, then moved past him toward the stairwell.
Soren watched him go before continuing to the door.
___________________________________________________________________________
Just as he stepped into the corridor, Nell jogged up to him—again slightly out of breath.
"Soren! Perfect timing."
He held out a small folded scrap of parchment.
"Tamsin wants you to drop this off with Everett. She said you were heading that way anyway."
Soren raised an eyebrow. "Was I?"
Nell grinned. "She said the look on your face said 'I'm going to the deck.'"
Soren wasn't sure what look that was, but arguing seemed unnecessary.
"I'll bring it to him," he said.
"Perfect! That means she won't yell at me for forgetting."
Soren accepted the slip of paper. "Is it urgent?"
"Only if you don't bring it," Nell said cheerfully. "If you do bring it, she'll say it was routine."
Soren wasn't entirely sure how that logic worked.
But Nell seemed relieved, so he nodded again.
"I'll head there now."
"You're a lifesaver," Nell said, already rushing off toward the storage lift.
Soren tucked the folded note into his breast pocket and resumed walking.
___________________________________________________________________________
Back on the main deck, the atmosphere had shifted again.
The morning rush had passed, leaving behind a more focused hum. Conversations were quieter now. Movements were purposeful in a calmer way than during takeoff.
Everett stood near the helm this time, speaking quietly with Cassian. Elion had rolled up several maps and was sorting them into labeled tubes. Liora knelt by a lower console, tightening something with careful, controlled movements.
Soren approached Everett.
"I have something from Tamsin," he said.
Everett accepted the note, unfolded it, read it, then nodded once. "Thank you."
Soren stepped back, letting Everett return to his discussion with Cassian.
From the helm, Atticus looked up briefly as he issued a quiet instruction to Marcell.
The ship shifted subtly underfoot—nothing dramatic, just the natural sway of movement.
Liora stood and dusted her hands. "We'll need a recalibration soon," she said toward the helm. "Within the next hour."
Atticus nodded. "We'll perform the shift after the next waypoint."
Soren paused.
He didn't know the details of what a "shift" entailed yet—only that it was a standard adjustment in long-range flight. Not dangerous, from what he'd gathered. Just necessary.
Routine.
Part of the work.
He made a mental note to observe carefully when it happened.
But for now, the deck continued in its steady rhythm, and Soren remained on the periphery—watching, listening, letting the shape of the ship become clearer in his mind.
___________________________________________________________________________
The quiet didn't last long.
A soft chime sounded near the helm—one of the internal timers, not an alarm, just a reminder.
Elion glanced at the nearest clock, then at the external readings on her console. "We're nearly at the waypoint," she said. "Wind vectors are holding. We can shift whenever you're ready, Captain."
Atticus gave a short nod.
"Marcell," he said.
Marcell stepped up beside him, already scanning a board of minor readings—altitude stability, wing balance, core output. "All systems are green," he confirmed. "No irregular strain."
"Liora?" Atticus called.
"Engine core steady," Liora replied from her station. "She'll handle the shift without complaint."
From near the rail, Rysen added, "No one's reported dizziness or nausea. We're clear on my side."
Atticus took his place at the helm.
The deck seemed to settle around that movement. People didn't stop what they were doing entirely, but they adjusted—those who were standing found handholds; those who were seated braced their feet more firmly.
Marcell's gaze moved to Soren.
"Memoirist," he said, "if you're going to stand, hold the rail. Don't lock your knees."
Soren moved to the position he'd used the previous day, fingers curling around the cool metal railing. "Yes, sir."
Atticus rested his hands lightly on the controls.
"Elion," he said. "Confirm route alignment."
"Current course: 032 by 7," Elion answered, fingers moving over her instruments. "Target correction: two degrees east, three degrees north. No anomalous crosswinds detected."
"Very well."
Liora called, "Core pressure within standard range. You have a buffer."
Atticus's expression didn't change, but there was a certain stillness to his posture that suggested focus.
"Beginning shift," he said.
___________________________________________________________________________
The change was gradual.
At first Soren felt only a faint pull sideways, barely noticeable. Then the deck angled a few degrees, enough that his weight shifted toward the rail he held. The ship creaked softly, metal plates adjusting under stress that was expected rather than alarming.
The sky outside tilted by a fraction, horizon line moving slowly.
Soren's body swayed with the motion.
He tightened his grip automatically, keeping his feet spaced just far enough apart to stay balanced without strain. The engine's hum deepened for a moment, then evened out again.
Elion's voice was calm. "Course correction in progress. Angle within safe parameters."
Liora called, "Core strain increasing within expected threshold. Still stable."
Marcell kept his eyes on the subtle readings above the helm, his hand resting lightly against the sideboard as if feeling for any extra tremor in the frame.
Soren listened—to the creak, the hum, the measured voices. The ship didn't feel distressed. Just in motion.
After a few breaths, the deck leveled again.
The horizon outside settled back into its previous position.
"Shift complete," Elion said.
"Record it," Atticus replied.
Everett noted something down in his journal—time, angle, duration. He moved with the assurance of someone who had done this for years.
Atticus eased his grip on the controls.
"Maintain this heading," he said. "Monitor for further drift."
Elion acknowledged with a quiet "Aye, Captain," already checking her instruments again.
The tension—not fear, but concentrated effort—eased.
Conversations resumed in low tones. Liora shut a panel with a gentle click. Bram, who had been gripping the edge of a table out of pure stubbornness instead of taking a proper hold, stretched his knuckles as if daring the ship to try harder next time.
Soren felt his own shoulders relax.
Atticus turned his head slightly.
"Memoirist," he said.
"Yes, Captain?" Soren answered.
"That is the standard route shift under calm conditions. You will likely see several more. When you document it, distinguish clearly between mechanical details and personal impressions."
"I understand."
Atticus eyes lingered for a brief moment and gave a short satisfied nod, he turned back to speak with Marcell about the next route marker.
Soren stayed where he was a moment longer, letting the feeling of the maneuver settle in his body so he could remember it properly later—the weight shift, the sounds, the small change in everyone's posture.
Then he stepped back from the railing.
___________________________________________________________________________
The deck gradually slipped into a quieter pace, like the ship had exhaled.
Liora fastened the last of the panel latches and wiped her hands on a cloth. "She behaved," she remarked to Bram.
"Of course she did," Bram said. "She knows better than to throw a fit with guests onboard."
"We always have guests," Liora replied.
"Exactly," Bram muttered.
Near the navigation area, Elion rolled up a chart and slid it into a labeled tube. Everett stood beside her, comparing her updated heading with a list of previously recorded routes.
"The correction was smoother than last time," Everett noted.
"The wind cooperated," Elion said. "I'll take that as a good start."
Soren approached them.
"Do the shifts always feel like that?" he asked.
"In calm conditions, yes," Everett answered. "In rougher air, the tilt can be sharper. But the goal is always controlled adjustment. If we're thrown off-balance, something's gone wrong."
"That's… rare?" Soren asked.
"Rare," Everett confirmed.
Elion offered Soren a small smile. "You did well for your first proper shift."
"I was holding onto a rail," Soren pointed out.
"Some people don't think to," she replied. "They assume the floor will stay exactly where they left it."
Bram, in the background, snorted. "If the floor stayed where you left it, we wouldn't need engineers."
"Or navigators," Elion said.
"Or archivists," Everett added mildly.
Soren smiled.
The exchange was light, easy. It made the maneuver feel less like a looming event and more like another ordinary part of the day.
___________________________________________________________________________
Later, Soren found himself back at the observation walkway.
The sky seemed brighter now, the clouds less thick. The ship glided through a thinner layer, leaving faint trails that dissipated quickly behind them.
He leaned slightly against the window frame, watching distant shapes that might have been mountains or just tricks of the light.
Footsteps approached softly.
"Good place to check if anyone's gone pale," Rysen's voice said from behind him.
Soren glanced back.
Rysen stood in the walkway entrance, arms folded loosely. He didn't look particularly concerned—just watchful.
"You're making rounds?" Soren asked.
"Yes," Rysen said. "Route shifts sometimes unsettle people. Dizziness, nausea, fear of falling through walls—that sort of thing."
"Does that happen often?" Soren asked.
"Often enough that I check," Rysen replied. His gaze rested on Soren's face for a moment. "You look fine."
"I feel fine," Soren said.
"Good. If that changes, come see me. Don't wait until you're trying not to faint on the deck."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Rysen gave a small nod. "Enjoy the view."
He left the walkway as quietly as he'd arrived.
Soren turned back to the window.
The engine hum had become so familiar that he almost stopped hearing it unless he focused. The steady vibration under his feet no longer made him tense. It was just part of the environment now.
He stayed there until the scent of food began to drift faintly through the air.
___________________________________________________________________________
The mess hall felt a little different after the first shift.
Not louder, exactly, but looser. People spoke with the relaxed cadence of those who had completed the first notable task of the day successfully.
Soren took his usual portion and slid onto a bench near the middle of the room.
Nell dropped into the seat beside him moments later, setting down his tray with a quiet clatter. "We didn't roll over," he said cheerfully. "That's always nice."
"Does that thought cross your mind every time?" Soren asked.
"Only on Mondays," Nell answered.
"It isn't Monday," Soren pointed out.
"Exactly," Nell said.
Across from them, Liora stirred her soup thoughtfully. "The engine core cooperated," she commented. "That's usually what matters."
Bram shook his head. "What matters is that the captain doesn't try to impress anyone by over-correcting."
"He has never done that," Marcell said from nearby without looking up from his food.
"Exactly," Bram replied. "That's why we're all still here."
Soren smiled into his bowl.
At the command table, Atticus and Cassian spoke quietly over a map rolled halfway open between them. Cassian tapped a gloved finger near one corner of the chart, saying something Soren couldn't hear. Atticus listened, then adjusted a note on the side with his pencil.
There was no visible tension between them—just two people accustomed to working together under structured conditions.
Everett and Elion ate side by side a few tables away, heads bent together over yet another slip of paper as they spoke in low tones, occasionally gesturing with their spoons for emphasis.
Rysen sat at the far end of the table, not isolated but positioned where people could easily reach him if they needed something. He ate steadily, occasionally glancing around the room to check for signs of discomfort or unease.
No one seemed particularly distressed.
It wasn't exciting.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it felt… solid.
Soren found that he liked that more than he would have expected.
___________________________________________________________________________
After lunch, the crew dispersed again.
Soren returned his tray, then paused in the hallway, unsure whether to go back to his cabin or remain on the deck.
He decided on the deck.
The space was quieter now—people spread through other parts of the ship, some on rotating rest periods, others working in lower levels. The light had shifted slightly as the sun moved across the sky, softening the edges of shadows.
Soren moved to the central table, opened his satchel, and took out the memoir.
He flipped to the page he'd written on the day before.
|| Crew adapting smoothly to airborne routine. Atmosphere orderly, not tense.
Below it, he added:
|| First planned route shift completed under calm conditions. Maneuver smooth. || Crew confident; roles clearly defined. Ship's motion controlled and predictable.
He tapped the tip of the pen lightly against the paper, thinking.
Then he wrote one last line:
|| Personal adjustment: beginning to recognize ship's rhythms.
He read the words over and nodded.
They weren't dramatic.
They weren't poetic.
But they were true.
He let the ink dry before closing the book and returning it carefully to the satchel.
___________________________________________________________________________
As the afternoon stretched on, Soren spent some time helping Nell carry a small set of labeled containers from one end of the deck to the other—nothing heavy enough to be real work, but enough to make him feel less like a shadow hovering around people with actual tasks.
"You don't have to do this," Nell said as they set the last container down.
"I know," Soren replied. "I want to understand how everything fits together."
Nell smiled. "That's a good reason. Just don't let Tamsin hear you say that or she'll recruit you for permanent label duty."
"I'll be careful," Soren said.
"Do," Nell agreed gravely, then ruined the seriousness by grinning.
By the time the outer light began to soften into the gold of late afternoon, the ship felt… familiar.
Not entirely.
But enough that Soren no longer felt like he was constantly one wrong turn away from being lost.
The first real day of travel was drawing to a close.
He could feel it in the way the crew moved—still busy, but with a certain ease that came from knowing the hard part was behind them, at least for the moment.
Soren returned to his cabin once more, the hum of the engine wrapping around him like a low, constant thread.
He set his satchel on the bunk and sat beside it, listening.
Tomorrow would bring another series of tasks, another set of shifts and observations. Routes to watch. People to notice. Details to gather quietly and record.
For now, he allowed himself a few minutes of stillness.
The Aurelius continued forward on its adjusted course, steady and sure, carrying them all into a sky that—for the time being—remained calm.
___________________________________________________________________________