Soren woke before his body did.
Consciousness surfaced slowly, without urgency, as if it had never fully sunk beneath the surface to begin with. He did not open his eyes. He let the moment linger, suspended in that narrow space between sleep and waking, where sensation arrived before thought and meaning had not yet settled into shape.
The wind was there.
Not the sustained, disciplined flow it had carried days ago—no steady corridor-threading current, no predictable variance that could be charted and archived. This wind moved differently. It arrived in irregular sweeps, brushing against the edges of perception before slipping away again, only to return from another direction entirely. It rose, fell, hesitated.
Almost playful.
Almost volatile.
Dancing, his mind supplied, unbidden, before he could decide whether the word fit.
Beneath it all ran the hum of the Aurelius. Louder today. Tighter. The vibration carried a sharper cadence, each beat drawn a fraction closer to the next, as though the ship were holding itself in readiness—braced, but not yet strained. It was not discomforting. It was simply… different.
Soren remained still.
Impressions drifted through him, unstructured and unnumbered. Hismemory arrived as texture.
The way the wind had eased after that evening, receding until its absence became more noticeable than its presence.
Everett and Cassian standing close together on the operations deck, voices low, aligned in prediction rather than argument—three days.
The return of airflow on another evening, mild and tentative, as if testing the corridors before committing.
Its disappearance again the following afternoon, leaving the ship feeling oddly hollow, like a breath held too long and then released.
And now—
Now it had returned again, erratic and light-footed, brushing at the ship's interior with a restlessness that refused to settle.
Something tight drew quietly beneath Soren's ribs.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was unchanged; smooth panels, faint ambient lighting, the same familiar seams he had looked at countless mornings before. He watched it for a moment longer than necessary, allowing the sensations to organize themselves rather than forcing them into meaning.
Then he turned his head toward the window panel beside his bed.
The sky beyond it was blue.
Clean blue.
Not the layered grey-blue of the past days. Not the muted haze of transition or overcast drift. This was bright, open sky—white clouds scattered lazily across the expanse, evenly spaced, unbroken. The kind of sky that suggested normalcy without effort.
Too clean.
The thought arrived without invitation and lodged itself somewhere behind his sternum, where it remained, unexamined but present.
Soren swung his legs over the side of the bed and set his feet against the floor.
The vibration met him immediately.
Subtle, but unmistakable. It traveled upward through the soles of his feet, not heavy enough to alarm, not irregular enough to suggest malfunction. Yet there was a sharpness to it that hadn't been there before, as though the deck were transmitting something it usually absorbed—passing it on instead of diffusing it.
He sat there for a moment, hands resting loosely on his thighs, breathing in time with the hum.
Then he rose.
The shower cut clean and cool across his skin, water striking his shoulders in a steady sheet. He stood beneath it longer than usual, eyes closed, letting the temperature ground him, letting the sound drown out the restless movement of air beyond the stall. The pressure behind his eyes eased gradually—not gone, but softened enough to be manageable.
By the time he shut the water off, he felt steadier.
Back in his quarters, the change was immediate.
The air felt colder.
Not sharply so—just enough to be noticed. It pooled low to the floor, brushing against his ankles in shallow, persistent currents. The sensation followed him as he dressed with practiced efficiency: trousers, shirt, coat. The wind did not rise to meet him. It stayed below, threading quietly along the panels, lingering where heat did not.
Soren keyed his door open and stepped into the corridor.
He nearly collided with someone.
The contact was minimal—barely enough to force both of them to halt—but the uniform registered first. Darker fabric. Structured lines. An insignia that did not belong to this corridor.
An officer.
Soren's gaze lifted instinctively.
The man stood a half-step back now, posture straight, expression composed. His eyes swept over Soren with quick, precise efficiency. Not curiosity. Not hostility.
Assessment.
"Morning," Soren said evenly.
There was a pause.
Just long enough to register as deliberate.
Then the officer inclined his head once and continued on, boots carrying him past and toward the forward end of the corridor—northward, toward the ship's spine.
Soren did not turn to watch him go.
Instead, he noted where the man had come from.
The far end of the crew quarters corridor.
That was… unusual.
Officers did not frequent the southern living sections without reason. Their quarters lay forward—north-facing corridors designed for command access and rapid mobilization. This side of the ship belonged to crew, to specialists, to scholars and archivists.
To Soren.
He should stay by North, the thought surfaced, quiet but firm, settling into place without argument.
Soren closed his door behind him. The seal engaged with a muted hiss, cutting off the corridor air. He drew a shallow breath and let it out slowly, eyes fixed ahead as the officer turned the corner and vanished from sight.
Only then did Soren move.
_________________________
Soren entered the mess to a room already in motion.
Not crowded—never crowded at this hour—but alive in the quiet, practical way of a space easing into routine. Conversation layered softly over itself, voices rising and falling without urgency. The clink of utensils, the low hum of equipment behind the counter, the familiar rhythm of movement grounded the room in something almost ordinary.
Almost.
Nell and Vivian stood near one of the side tables, heads inclined toward one another in conversation. Vivian noticed him first and lifted a hand in an easy wave.
"Soren."
He returned the gesture, a small smile forming before he consciously decided to offer it. Whatever tension had followed him out of the corridor loosened by a fraction as he stepped further inside.
His attention shifted—inevitably—to the counter.
The platters were still there.
Two of them, broad and metal-lidded, positioned with a confidence they hadn't possessed when they were first introduced. No signage now. No explanation offered. They simply existed, integrated into the space as if they had always belonged there.
Soren approached without hesitation.
Vivian reached the counter a moment ahead of him and lifted one of the lids. "Morning platter," she said lightly. "Or late morning. Depends who you ask."
The first tray held pancakes, stacked neatly, edges browned just enough to catch the light. Steam rose faintly from their surface. The second revealed roasted vegetables—roots and greens mixed together, lightly charred, their scent warm and grounding.
Soren inclined his head. "It's settled in."
Vivian smiled. "Seems so. Turns out people appreciate not having to make decisions before they've fully woken up."
Nell joined them, brushing her hands against her trousers as she stepped closer. "Especially with the shift rotations," she added. "Half the lower deck's eating on instinct alone."
Soren took a plate and served himself—pancakes first, then vegetables. The motion felt natural now. Familiar. Expected.
They moved toward one of the side tables, away from the center of the room. Nell sat across from him. Vivian lingered only long enough to add a passing comment about inventory before she was called back toward the counter.
For a few moments, they ate in silence.
It was comfortable—enough that Soren noticed the change before he consciously named it.
Nell moved more slowly than usual.
Not unsteadily. Not with effort. Just a fraction delayed. The way her hand hovered before lifting her cup. The extra moment she took to settle back into her seat. Her complexion was unchanged, her expression steady, but there was a subtle weight to her posture that hadn't been there before.
"How have you been?" Soren asked, keeping his tone even.
Nell exhaled through a small smile. "Busy."
He waited.
"The lower deck's been demanding," she continued after a moment. "More adjustments than usual. Airflow checks. Pressure readouts. Inventory moving faster than projected." She took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Nothing alarming. Just… more."
"That would explain the pace," Soren said.
She nodded. "Supplies too. Certain items are cycling quicker than expected."
"Any cause identified?"
Nell shrugged lightly. "Not officially. Nathan's been out again—caught something. Fever, this time. Medical says he'll recover fine, but redistribution's been uneven."
Soren's grip on his fork stilled for just a beat.
"Nathan?" he echoed.
"Mm-hm. He's stubborn," Nell said, a touch of fondness softening the word. "Doesn't rest unless he's forced to."
They moved on to other topics—rotation overlaps, small scheduling adjustments, how the platter system had quietly eased congestion during peak hours. Soren listened more than he spoke, noting the steadiness in Nell's voice, the careful way she conserved energy between sentences and, Nathan.
When they finished, they parted without ceremony.
Nell headed back toward the lower deck. Soren moved towards where the operations deck is located.
The mess continued behind him, settling deeper into its rhythm as he left.
_________________________
The operations deck was already assembled when Soren arrived.
As usual.
Nothing had shifted. Cassian stood near the projection console, one hand resting against its edge as data scrolled steadily before him. Everett occupied his customary position slightly off to the side, slate held close to his chest, posture relaxed but alert. Elion stood near the navigation interface, one hip angled lightly against the panel, arms folded as her eyes tracked the changing calculations with focused precision.
At the center of the room—
Atticus.
Hands clasped behind his back. Spine straight. Gaze forward, not fixed on any one display, yet missing nothing.
Soren took his place along the periphery, exactly where he always stood. He did not speak. He did not need to.
For a moment, only the hum of the Aurelius filled the space.
Cassian broke the silence.
"The wind variance is no longer trending toward stabilization," he said, voice level, precise. "Directional shifts continue to occur without corresponding changes in pressure or altitude. The pattern does not match previous cycles."
Everett glanced down at his slate, scrolling with his thumb. "Historical records along this route indicate similar irregularities," he replied calmly. "They corrected themselves without intervention."
Cassian turned his head slightly—not confrontational, simply acknowledging. "Those instances resolved within a narrower temporal window. This has not."
Elion exhaled softly. "That doesn't automatically justify rerouting."
Cassian nodded once. "No. It justifies scrutiny."
Everett lifted his gaze. "And scrutiny doesn't require deviation."
"It may," Cassian said, "if continuation introduces compounded variables."
Elion pushed off the console and stepped closer to the navigation interface, tapping a control to expand the projection. "I've recalculated both options. If we maintain course, the wind may spike tomorrow night—upper mid-range intensity. Manageable. If we reroute, we lose stability in three other systems. Fuel efficiency drops. Time extends. Exposure increases."
Cassian studied the projection. "Your calculations assume the variance plateaus."
"They assume it behaves within tolerances," Elion corrected. "Which it has. Even now."
Everett added, "And every prior record suggests it will."
Cassian paused slightly before continuing. "Prior records do not account for compression in recurrence intervals."
Atticus turned his head then.
"Explain," he said.
Cassian angled himself towards Atticus. "The wind's return-and-withdrawal cycle is shortening. The intervals between activity are decreasing. That is observable. Whether it escalates or not remains unknown."
Silence followed—not tense, but attentive.
Elion crossed her arms again. "Unknown doesn't equal unmanageable."
"It also doesn't equal safe," Cassian replied.
Everett glanced briefly toward her before speaking. "We've maintained this route through worse."
"And through different conditions," Cassian said evenly.
Atticus raised a hand.
The discussion halted immediately.
He did not look at Cassian or Everett.
He looked at Soren.
"You've been monitoring the crews," Atticus said. "What have you observed?"
The attention shifted, subtle but complete.
Soren did not answer right away. Weighing his words and conclusions.
"Operational efficiency remains intact," he said at last. "No breakdowns. No failures."
Cassian's gaze sharpened. "Fatigue?"
"Yes," Soren answered. "But within expected thresholds."
Elion studied him. "Any deviation in behavior?"
"Nothing overt," Soren replied. "Some sluggishness. No errors."
Everett tilted his slate. "And the ship itself?"
Soren met Atticus's gaze.
"Systems respond when corrected," he said carefully. "Manual intervention restores balance."
"How often?" Atticus asked.
"Often enough to notice," Soren said.
That answer landed differently.
Atticus turned back to the room.
"We remain on course," he said after a pause.
Cassian tightened just a fraction.
Atticus lifted a hand again—this time without looking.
"We monitor," Atticus continued. "We do not react prematurely."
Elion inclined her head. "Understood."
Everett nodded once. "I'll continue tracking comparative records."
Cassian said nothing, but his posture remained taut, eyes fixed on the projection as if willing it to reveal more.
"Dismissed," Atticus said.
The meeting dissolved efficiently. Elion returned to her station. Everett lingered only long enough to close out his slate. Cassian remained where he was for a heartbeat longer before stepping away.
"Soren," Atticus said.
He turned.
"Yes, Captain."
"Continue your observations," Atticus said. "Report anything that feels… out of place."
Soren lingered for a moment, a short exhale before inclining his head. "I will."
Atticus held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, assessing maybe.
Then he turned away.
Soren remained where he was for a breath longer, the hum of the Aurelius pressing faintly through the deck beneath his feet.
_________________________