The mess hall had long since begun to thin when Soren finished his dinner.
The clatter of cutlery had softened to an occasional sound now—someone setting a tray aside, another chair sliding back with muted restraint. Conversations lingered in pockets rather than filling the space, low and tired, the kind that carried no urgency and expected no reply. The lights overhead glowed warmly, diffused just enough to blur the sharp edges of the room into something almost gentle.
Soren sat alone at the end of the table, hands folded loosely around his cup.
He hadn't eaten much. Enough to justify the visit. Enough to keep the ache in his stomach from complicating things further. The rest he left untouched, cooling in quiet abandonment on the tray before him.
When he stood, it was with care.
His left ankle protested immediately—not sharply, not yet, but with a deep, persistent pressure that had grown more insistent over the last hour. It was no longer the distant throb he'd dismissed earlier. The joint felt swollen now, stiff beneath his boot, as though it had begun to forget how it was meant to move.
Soren paused, weight balanced carefully, and waited for the sensation to settle before stepping away from the table.
He cleared his tray, nodded once to a crew member passing by, and made his way out of the mess.
The mid-deck corridor greeted him with its familiar quiet.
Here, the Aurelius felt different—less lived-in, more structural. The walls curved gently inward, panels seamless and pale, their surfaces catching the light in soft gradients rather than reflections. Embedded strips along the floor traced the path forward in muted amber, guiding without demanding attention.
Soren walked slowly.
Deliberately.
Each step was measured, placed with intention rather than habit. He adjusted his gait subtly to favor his right side, keeping pressure off the injured ankle as much as he could without drawing notice to it. The motion felt unnatural—controlled in a way that required constant awareness—but he maintained it all the same.
The hull beneath his feet carried the low, constant hum of the ship.
Not loud. Never loud. Just present—a vibration that traveled up through the soles of his boots and into his bones, steady and unwavering. The sound of the engines, distant machinery cycling, the quiet labor of a vessel that never truly slept.
Tonight, it felt heavier.
Not stronger. Just… closer. As if the ship's workings pressed nearer to the surface, no longer content to remain background noise.
Soren's breath fogged faintly in the cooler air as he moved.
The corridor stretched ahead of him in a gentle curve, empty save for the occasional sealed doorway and maintenance panel. No crew passed him. No voices echoed from side passages. It was one of those stretches of time where the ship seemed to hold its breath, suspended between shifts.
His ankle flared again as he rounded the bend.
He stopped—not abruptly, but enough to rest a hand briefly against the wall, fingers splayed against the cool surface. The ache pulsed once, then again, sharper now, radiating up his calf in a way that made him grit his teeth despite himself.
So much for ignoring it.
Soren exhaled slowly and straightened, setting his jaw.
He resumed walking.
The medical bay lay just ahead, its doors marked by the subtle change in lighting and the faint scent of antiseptic that seemed to permeate the surrounding area. He adjusted his pace further as he approached, aware now of how obvious his limp must be to anyone paying attention.
The doors slid open as he reached them—
—and nearly closed again.
Rysen stood just inside the threshold, mid-step, one hand already reaching for the panel as if he had been about to exit.
They froze.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Rysen's eyes flicked down first.
Not to Soren's face. Not even to his hands.
To his gait.
To the slight hitch in his step, the careful way his weight settled unevenly as he came to a stop.
Rysen's expression didn't change much—his rarely did—but something in his posture shifted immediately, attention sharpening like a lens snapping into focus.
"Soren," he said.
There was no question in it.
Soren inclined his head slightly. "Rysen."
He had intended to say more. Some explanation, perhaps, or a dismissal. He never got the chance.
Rysen stepped aside and gestured inward, firm and unmistakable.
"Inside," he said.
It wasn't a request.
Soren hesitated for only a fraction of a second before complying. He stepped past Rysen and into the medical bay, the doors sliding shut behind them with a soft hiss that sealed off the corridor and its quiet.
The air inside was cooler, cleaner. The lighting brighter, clinical without being harsh. Equipment lined the walls in orderly precision, monitors pulsing softly, their displays casting faint glows across polished surfaces.
Rysen followed him in and turned, arms folding loosely as he assessed him from head to toe.
"How long?" he asked.
Soren blinked. "Since the stairwell."
"That's not an answer."
Soren exhaled. "Since earlier this afternoon. It worsened after."
Rysen didn't comment on the omission. He moved toward one of the examination chairs and gestured again, this time toward the seat.
"Sit."
Soren did.
As soon as he lowered himself, the tension he'd been holding in his leg loosened just enough for the pain to surge forward. He masked it well—years of practice had taught him how—but Rysen noticed anyway.
He always did.
Rysen crouched in front of him without ceremony, hands steady as he reached for Soren's boot.
"I'm removing this," he said, already working the fastenings loose.
"I can—"
"Don't."
The word was quiet. Absolute.
Soren fell silent.
Rysen eased the boot off carefully, movements precise, mindful of the swelling that had begun to form around the joint. The sock followed, revealing skin already flushed and taut, the ankle visibly swollen in a way that left little room for doubt.
Rysen's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"That's a bad sprain," he said. "Possibly more."
Soren's gaze drifted to the ceiling. "It didn't feel that way earlier."
"They rarely do."
Rysen pressed gently along the joint, fingers probing with controlled pressure. Soren inhaled sharply as a bolt of pain shot up his leg.
Rysen paused instantly. "There?"
"Yes," Soren admitted.
"Thought so."
He stood and crossed to the supply station, retrieving a small tray with practiced efficiency. He returned moments later with a cooling salve, compression bandage, and a vial of medication.
"This will help with inflammation," he said, holding up the vial briefly. "And this will keep you from making it worse."
"I don't need—"
"You do."
Rysen didn't look at him as he spoke. He focused on his work, applying the salve with firm, careful strokes that left Soren acutely aware of every point of contact. The cooling sensation seeped into his skin, easing the worst of the ache even as the pressure reminded him just how injured he was.
Rysen wrapped the bandage securely, layering it with methodical precision, ensuring support without cutting off circulation. His hands were warm, steady, unhurried.
When he finished, he straightened and stepped back.
"You'll stay off it as much as possible," he said. "No stairs unless absolutely necessary. And you'll take this twice daily."
He handed Soren the medication.
Soren accepted it. "Thank you."
Rysen studied him for a moment, then nodded once.
"How's Jennie?" Soren asked quietly.
Rysen's expression softened—just slightly. "Stable. Improving. She responded well to the fluids."
"That's good."
"She's still under observation," Rysen added. "We're not discharging her yet."
Soren absorbed that in silence, nodding once.
When he moved to stand, he underestimated the shift in weight.
His ankle protested sharply, and before he could adjust—
Rysen's hand was there.
Firm. Supportive.
He caught Soren just above the elbow, grip steady as he helped guide him upright. The contact lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary—not possessive, not hesitant. Just… present.
Balanced.
"You've got it?" Rysen asked.
"Yes," Soren replied, though his pulse had quickened inexplicably.
Rysen released him slowly, stepping back and giving him space.
"Don't ignore injuries," he said. "Even minor ones."
Soren offered a faint smile. "I'll try."
Rysen regarded him for a moment, then turned toward the exit. "Get some rest."
"I will."
They parted there.
The doors slid open, and Soren stepped back into the corridor, the hum of the Aurelius meeting him once more.
Behind him, the medical bay sealed itself shut.
_________________________
The threshold to the outer hull opened with a familiar, measured release of pressure.
Soren paused just inside it.
The Aurelius breathed differently here.
Inside the hull, sound was layered—systems overlapping, voices softened by distance, the ship's hum a constant companion beneath everything else. Outside, it thinned. Stripped back. Reduced to something almost honest. The wind moved freely along the exterior walkway, brushing past the metal railings and sweeping low across the open span with a softness that belied its persistence earlier in the day.
Tonight, it had quieted.
Not gone. Never gone. But subdued, as if it, too, were listening.
Soren stepped through.
The deck beneath his boots felt colder than the interior plating, the temperature difference subtle but unmistakable. The hull's outer surface carried the weight of the sky directly—no insulation from the vastness beyond, no illusion of separation. Just metal, structure, and air.
He moved slowly.
Not because he had to—though his ankle protested with every careful step—but because something in him demanded it. Each movement deliberate. Each shift of weight measured. His body adjusted around the pain without complaint, distributing the strain, compensating instinctively.
The railing came into view ahead.
And beyond it—
The sky.
The clouds had thinned since evening. What remained stretched in long, pale ribbons across the darkening blue, edges dissolving into one another as the last light bled away. Stars had begun to pierce through in faint clusters, distant and unmoving, indifferent to the vessel cutting its path beneath them.
Atticus stood at the rail.
Hands clasped behind his back.
Spine straight.
Head angled slightly upward, gaze fixed on the open expanse beyond the ship as though the horizon itself were an object of study rather than a boundary. The wind teased at the edges of his coat, tugging gently at the fabric without disturbing his stance.
For a moment, Soren did not move.
He had not expected this—had not consciously anticipated another presence here—but the sight settled something inside him all the same. A quiet acknowledgment. A recognition.
He resumed walking.
His footsteps were soft against the exterior plating, nearly lost to the open air. He did not announce himself. Did not rush. By the time he reached a respectful distance behind Atticus, the captain was already turning.
Their eyes met.
"Captain," Soren said, inclining his head.
Atticus regarded him for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
His gaze dipped briefly—just briefly—toward Soren's left leg. The angle of his stance. The careful way his weight favored one side.
Then his eyes lifted again, expression unreadable.
"Soren," he replied.
Silence settled between them, unforced.
Atticus turned back toward the sky. "Stand with me for a while."
It was not phrased as a request.
But it was not an order, either.
Soren stepped forward, stopping beside him at the rail. He rested his forearms lightly against the cool metal, allowing the weight of his body to ease forward just enough to relieve the pressure on his ankle. The wind curled around his legs, gentler now than it had been earlier—less erratic, less insistent.
For a time, neither of them spoke.
The Aurelius moved steadily beneath them, its passage through the air so smooth it was almost imperceptible. The ship did not fight the wind tonight. It flowed with it.
At last, Atticus spoke.
"How does the wind feel to you?" he asked.
Soren considered the question.
Not its surface meaning—but its intent.
"Quieter," he said after a moment. "Less directionless. It still moves, but… with restraint."
Atticus nodded once. "That's how I feel it too."
They stood in silence again, the words settling between them.
"I was not always comfortable with heights," Atticus continued, voice even. "Or with the sky."
Soren glanced sideways at him, surprised.
Atticus did not look back.
"When I was a boy," he said, "I was selected for a sponsorship program. One of the charitable initiatives—aristocrats funding experiences for orphans deemed… promising."
Soren remained silent, listening.
"It was my first time aboard an aircraft," Atticus went on. "I remember gripping the rail so tightly my hands ached. I couldn't understand how something so large could remain aloft. How anyone could trust it."
A faint pause.
"The commander noticed," Atticus said. "He said nothing. He simply stood beside me. Calm. Unmoving. And I realized—he was not afraid because he understood the responsibility. Not the mechanics. The weight of command."
Atticus's gaze lifted slightly, following the line where sky met distance.
"That was when I decided," he said. "Not that I wanted to fly. But that I wanted to be the one others could stand beside when they were afraid."
Soren absorbed that quietly.
After a moment, Atticus turned his head just enough to look at him.
"And you?" he asked. "Why did you choose to become a memoirist?"
The question struck deeper than Soren had expected.
He exhaled slowly.
"I was raised among scholars," he said. "My family valued records. Interpretation. Established truths." His fingers curled lightly against the rail. "I studied the same. Prepared to follow the same path."
Atticus waited.
"But I found myself… doubting," Soren continued. "Not out of defiance. Out of inconsistency. What I observed did not always align with what was written."
A pause.
"My mother encouraged me to speak," he said quietly. "To document what I saw."
The wind shifted slightly, brushing against his coat.
"I did," Soren said. "And I was wrong."
Atticus's gaze sharpened—not with judgment, but attention.
"The investigation concluded differently," Soren went on. "Records contradicted my account. And in the space between my certainty and their findings… my mother was lost."
He did not elaborate. He did not need to.
"When the truth proved mutable," Soren said, "I chose to record without interpretation. To observe. To remember." His voice steadied. "Not because it would prevent error—but because forgetting felt worse."
Atticus said nothing for a long moment.
Then, quietly, "That is not a small burden to carry."
"No," Soren agreed.
They stood together in silence once more, the unspoken weight of shared understanding settling comfortably between them.
At length, Atticus straightened.
"It's late," he said. "You should not remain outside the hull too long."
Soren nodded. "I will return shortly."
Atticus hesitated.
Then he reached out—not touching, not quite—but close enough that Soren felt the intention.
"Be careful," Atticus said.
Their eyes met again.
For just a fraction longer than necessary.
Then Atticus turned and walked back toward the threshold, the door sealing softly behind him as he departed.
Soren remained, lingering in the quiet presence of the moment.
He exhaled and allowed himself to slide down slightly, resting back against the exterior panel beneath the rail. The metal was cold through his coat, grounding him in the present moment.
Above him, the sky stretched on—vast, quiet, watchful.
_________________________
Soren did not move for a long while.
The exterior panel was cool against his back, the chill seeping slowly through the layers of his coat until it reached skin. He welcomed it. The cold anchored him, gave shape to the moment in a way warmth never quite could. Above him, the sky remained open and distant, its vastness unchanging even as the Aurelius cut steadily through it.
The wind barely stirred now.
Where it had once threaded restlessly along the hull—testing seams, brushing corridors, refusing to settle—it now moved with restraint. A low, continuous presence rather than a wandering one. It slipped along the rail, curled faintly around Soren's boots, then passed on without insistence.
He closed his eyes.
Just briefly.
Not to sleep. Not to retreat.
Only to recalibrate.
When he opened them again, the world felt marginally sharper. The stars clearer. The line of the hull more defined. The faint vibration of the ship carried cleanly through the panel beneath his shoulder blades, a steady transmission rather than a tremor.
The Aurelius felt… composed.
Not relaxed. Not complacent.
But held.
Soren shifted carefully, testing his ankle. A dull ache responded—persistent, manageable. The medical dressing Rysen had applied earlier held firm, the compression steady without constriction. He adjusted his posture slightly to relieve the strain, then reached into the inner pocket of his coat.
The ledger was warm where it rested against his chest.
He brought it out slowly, reverently, as he always did. The leather cover bore the familiar marks of use—subtle creases at the spine, faint scuffs along the edges, softened corners shaped by countless hours in his hands. He balanced it against his thigh, then opened it to the marked page.
The same page.
The one he had closed earlier that afternoon.
His gaze fell first not on the written entries, but on the space beneath them.
The gap.
It was still there.
Unchanged.
Soren did not linger on it this time.
He removed his pen, adjusted his grip, and began to write.
|| Evening observation: Wind activity diminished after dusk. Directional variance reduced. Movement remains present but subdued, with fewer abrupt shifts. Exterior currents consistent along hull; interior airflow stabilized across mid-deck corridors.
He paused, listening.
The ship answered in its own way—a low, steady hum beneath the deck, the kind that spoke of function rather than strain. He continued.
|| Auditory profile of the Aurelius normalized slightly following evening hours. Core resonance remains elevated compared to baseline but no longer sharp. Vibration transmission through outer panels even and sustained.
He hesitated, then added the next notation with deliberate care.
|| Medical observation (indirect): Multiple crew members have experienced sudden fatigue and collapse over the course of several days. Symptoms reported include pallor, excessive thirst despite adequate hydration, elevated temperature, and irregular vitals. Current known cases total five. No shared location identified. No mechanical cause determined.
He lifted the pen for a moment, then returned it to the page.
|| All affected individuals are under medical supervision. Condition appears stable at present, though continued monitoring required.
The words settled onto the page with quiet finality.
Soren leaned back slightly, reviewing what he had written.
No names.
No speculation.
Only what could be observed. What could be confirmed. What had already occurred.
The ledger did not ask him to interpret. Only to remember.
He exhaled slowly, once, then again, allowing the rhythm of his breath to align with the ship beneath him. The earlier tightness behind his eyes did not return. His thoughts remained clear, unfragmented.
Satisfied, he closed the ledger.
This time, the sound felt complete.
He returned it to his coat and rose carefully to his feet, pausing just long enough to ensure his balance held. The wind brushed past his calves as he turned toward the threshold, the exterior lights casting long, pale reflections across the hull plating.
The doorway awaited him.
Soren rose slowly, casting one final glance outward—not searching for anything in particular, not expecting revelation. The horizon lay open and indistinct, clouds stretched thin and pale against the darkening sky. Nothing moved there that he could name. Nothing broke the line of distance.
He stepped closer to the threshold—
And paused.
The sound came low.
So distant it barely qualified as sound at all.
A resonance, felt more than heard, threading faintly through the open air beyond the hull. It did not carry through the rail beneath his hand, nor through the plating under his boots. It seemed to arrive from farther away—from somewhere beyond the ship's immediate presence, beyond the reach of its systems.
Not the Aurelius.
Soren's gaze lifted instinctively toward the horizon.
There was nothing.
No disturbance in the clouds. No shift in the sky. Only the steady expanse ahead and the quiet wind moving along the hull, subdued but present.
The sensation faded almost as soon as he noticed it.
He exhaled, slow and controlled.
Wind shear, perhaps. A pressure differential along the outer panels. Or nothing at all—an overlap of sound and expectation, his attention too finely tuned after a long day.
He dismissed it.
Then stepped forward and crossed the threshold back into the ship.
The pressure seal engaged with a soft, familiar sigh.
The interior hum of the Aurelius enveloped him at once—layered, steady, reassuring in its constancy. Systems resumed their quiet conversation around him, the ship's presence reasserting itself in full.
Soren's heart skipped a single, sharp beat—
Then settled.
He did not turn back.
Whatever he had thought he heard dissolved beneath the ship's rhythm, folded neatly away where unresolved things belonged. Not forgotten. Just… unclaimed.
For now.
He adjusted his stride and continued down the corridor, the Aurelius carrying him forward as it always had.
_________________________