Minutes passed.
Soren remained seated, his posture unchanged, his hands resting lightly on his knees. The rest bay did not react to his stillness. The hum of the Aurelius threaded through the space, constant and unbroken, settling into the background the way it always did when nothing demanded attention.
Nothing had happened.
That, in itself, was information.
He let the quiet hold while his breathing steadied, slow and deliberate. The cold sweat at his back cooled and dried beneath the warmth of the bay, leaving only a faint residue of awareness where it had been. His chest still felt heavy, the effort of each breath noticeable but contained, as though his body were reminding him—firmly, without panic—that it was working harder than usual.
He did not move yet.
Instead, he ordered what he knew.
The man had known his name. Had spoken it without hesitation, without testing it first. That meant observation. Familiarity. Time.
How much time, Soren did not know.
He did not know how many of them were on the Aurelius. One, at least. Possibly more. Enough, perhaps, to pass unnoticed in the gaps between shifts, to be mistaken for late arrivals or early risers. Enough to move without attracting attention.
They had not acted.
That, too, mattered.
No alarms. No sudden system failures. No violence. The ship was holding—moving, sustaining, responding to commands as it always had. The wind had changed, yes, erratic and unsettled, but the Aurelius had adapted. Its systems compensated. Its rhythm adjusted.
They had integrated.
The thought settled with uncomfortable clarity.
If they had boarded recently, they had done so quietly. If they had been here longer, they had learned quickly. Either way, they were not moving against the ship. They were moving with it.
Soren closed his eyes briefly, not in fatigue, but in containment. He did not let the possibilities spiral. There was no benefit in imagining scenarios that could not yet be confirmed. He could not identify them all, even if certain figures and postures now pressed themselves forward in his memory. Recognition without certainty was not evidence.
What he had was enough.
He exhaled, slow and measured, grounding himself in the present moment. The warmth of the rest bay pressed against him, steady and real. His ankle no longer demanded attention, the stiffness easing now that he had been seated for several minutes. When he shifted his weight, it responded without complaint.
Authority, he decided.
Not investigation. Not confrontation.
Authority.
Atticus.
The decision settled cleanly, without resistance. Atticus would know what to do. He would understand the implications without dramatizing them. He would act without drawing attention.
Soren opened his eyes and stood.
The motion sent a brief ripple of dizziness through him—nothing severe, just enough to remind him to pause before stepping forward. He did so, waiting for the sensation to pass before moving toward the door. His posture remained composed, his movements unhurried.
When the door slid open, a gust of wind surged through the corridor beyond, rushing upward toward the mid-deck. It caught the edge of his coat and fluttered it sharply, cold air brushing against his hands and the exposed skin of his neck. The chill was sudden, invasive.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he adjusted his coat with a practiced motion and stepped out into the corridor, letting the wind pass around him. It streamed upward with purpose, its direction clear now, less erratic than before. The Aurelius was compensating again, redistributing air flow where it was needed.
Soren set off, choosing the shorter route toward the stairs without conscious deliberation. His pace was measured, not hurried, his attention tuned outward rather than inward. He watched the way people moved—how they stepped aside, how they angled their bodies, how their gazes flicked briefly toward him before moving on.
No one stopped him.
No one stared.
The lower-deck remained occupied in that subtle, unsettling way he had noticed earlier. Not crowded. Just… active. Crews passed him in pairs or alone, their expressions focused, their movements purposeful. Conversations stayed low, contained. He caught fragments of speech—technical, procedural, unfinished—before they slipped away again into the hum.
He did not look for the man from the rest bay.
He did not need to.
The wind brushed against his calves as he walked, cooler here than in the rest bay but steadier, less biting than before. It followed the architecture of the ship, flowing along the corridor's curves and junctions in disciplined currents. Soren matched his pace to it without thinking, grounding himself in the rhythm of his steps.
One foot. Then the other.
His ankle held. The earlier numbness he had felt in the lower-deck gave way to sensation again, the stiffness loosening with movement. He welcomed it. Pain would have been easier to dismiss. This was simply awareness.
He passed another junction, then another. A crew member stepped out of an access panel ahead of him, tool kit in hand, and paused just long enough to let Soren pass before resuming their work. Their nod was automatic, their expression neutral.
Normal.
Too normal, perhaps—but Soren did not linger on the thought. Normalcy could be learned. It could be worn.
The stairwell came into view.
The upward flow of wind intensified there, funneling through the narrow space with a purposeful rush. It lifted the hem of his coat again, colder now, sharper against his skin. He paused at the base of the stairs for the briefest moment, placing his hand against the rail.
The metal was cold beneath his palm.
He took the first step up.
The ascent steadied him. With each step, the air shifted incrementally as he left the lower-deck behind. The wind remained playful here, less disciplined, slipping past him in teasing currents that tugged at his sleeves before darting away again.
Ahead of him, the mid-deck awaited—familiar, ordered, bathed in the faint, growing light of early dawn. Soren straightened, his posture aligning itself with purpose as he stepped forward, leaving the lower-deck and its quiet wrongness behind.
_________________________
The mid-deck received him without resistance.
As Soren stepped fully out of the stairwell, the air shifted around him, warming by degrees so subtle they registered more as absence than change. The upward rush of wind thinned here, losing its disciplined insistence and returning to something closer to play. It brushed past him in errant currents, tugging once at the edge of his sleeve before veering away again, as though satisfied simply to make its presence known.
This was familiar.
The corridor stretched ahead, wide and orderly, its surfaces reflecting the first faint light of early dawn. Soren slowed as he walked, his pace easing not from hesitation but from recognition. The Aurelius felt more like herself here—less tense, less compressed. Systems hummed softly behind the walls, their cadence unchanged, their reliability intact.
He glanced toward one of the window panels as he passed.
Beyond the reinforced glass, the sky was beginning to pale, darkness thinning at the edges into a muted wash of color. It was not yet light enough to cast shadows, but the suggestion of morning hovered there, tentative and persistent. Time was moving forward, regardless of what the ship carried within it.
The urgency did not leave him.
It settled instead, reshaping itself into something quieter and more precise. He did not quicken his steps. He did not slow them further. He simply continued, posture aligned, attention clear.
Footsteps sounded ahead.
Soren registered them before he saw their source, the rhythm of them measured and familiar. A figure emerged from around the bend at the far end of the corridor, moving toward him with unhurried confidence. Even before his face came fully into view, Soren knew who it was.
Rysen.
Rysen's gait was steady, his shoulders squared beneath his coat, though there was a slight heaviness to his movements that suggested a long shift not yet concluded. His hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping their restraint, and the faint shadows beneath his eyes spoke of fatigue rather than weakness.
He noticed Soren immediately.
"Soren."
The sound of his name, spoken this time in Roenin and without surprise, loosened something tight beneath Soren's ribs. He had not realized how much tension he had been carrying until it eased, just a fraction, at the recognition.
"Rysen," Soren replied.
They stopped a short distance from one another, close enough to speak easily without raising their voices. For a moment, neither moved to continue on, the corridor holding them in a brief pocket of stillness.
Rysen's gaze flicked over Soren with practiced efficiency. Not invasive. Just attentive.
"You're early today," he said. His tone was mild, observational rather than accusatory. "And you look… a little pale."
Soren considered the words without defensiveness. He felt pale. Hollowed out at the edges, perhaps, though the clarity in his head remained intact.
"I slept early yesterday," he said after a moment. "Couldn't quite sleep in."
Rysen nodded slowly, accepting the explanation without pressing. "I see." His eyes lingered on Soren's face for a second longer, then shifted, scanning his posture, his breathing. "If you're feeling under, come by the medical bay. I'll be there."
The offer was simple. Open. Uncomplicated.
Something in Soren settled further at the sound of it. Not relief, exactly—but a sense of being anchored, of having a point of return if he needed it. He could tell Rysen was tired, the lines of it etched faintly at the corners of his eyes, but the steadiness beneath it was unmistakable.
"I'll find you," Soren said.
Rysen's mouth curved into a faint smile at that, brief and genuine. "I'd prefer if you prioritize rest," he added, the words delivered lightly, almost as a joke. "But I know how fond you are of ignoring that advice."
Soren allowed himself a small smile in return, the expression fleeting but real. He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'll try."
They parted without ceremony, Rysen continuing down the corridor toward the medical bay, Soren moving on in the opposite direction. As he walked, he became aware of how much calmer his movements felt now, the residual stiffness in his ankle easing further with each step. The earlier numbness had faded entirely, replaced by a grounded awareness that kept him present in his body.
The corridor lights flickered overhead.
Soren slowed, his gaze lifting as he passed beneath the panel he had noticed earlier. The flicker was more pronounced now, the light stuttering twice before stabilizing again. He paused long enough to register it, a quiet note added to the growing list of irregularities that did not yet form a pattern.
Maintenance would catch it, though the thought lacked its earlier certainty.
He continued on.
Atticus's quarters lay ahead, set apart from the rest of the mid-deck in a way that spoke less of isolation than of necessity. The corridor grew quieter as Soren approached, foot traffic thinning until he was alone with the hum and the soft play of wind against the walls.
He stopped outside the door.
For a moment, he hesitated.
The image of the man in the rest bay rose unbidden—the easy confidence, the way he had spoken Soren's name as though it were expected. Doubt flickered briefly at the edge of his thoughts. Could he have mistaken it? Could the recognition have been wrong?
The wind swept past him then, swift but gentle, brushing his cheek and the exposed skin at his throat. It grounded him immediately, pulling his attention back to the present, to the weight of what he knew rather than the comfort of uncertainty.
No. Not this time.
Soren raised his hand and knocked.
Once, firm and deliberate.
Then twice more, softer.
He lowered his hand and waited.
The corridor remained quiet around him, the hum steady, the light flickering faintly overhead as dawn continued its slow advance beyond the walls.
He did not move.
_________________________
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door.
Steady. Unhurried. Close.
Soren felt them more than he heard them, the vibration of movement carrying faintly through the panel beneath his palm. His hand dropped back to his side as the mechanism disengaged, the door sliding open with a soft hiss.
Atticus stood there.
He was already upright, his posture straight despite the faint signs of interrupted rest. His hair was unbound, falling loose around his shoulders rather than pulled back into its usual restraint, and the collar of his shirt lay open at the throat. He had not yet donned his coat. The impression was not one of disarray, but of immediacy—as though sleep had been set aside without protest the moment it was no longer required.
"Soren."
The sound of his name cut cleanly through the corridor's quiet, grounding and precise. It snapped Soren fully back into the present.
"Captain," Soren replied.
His gaze flicked briefly down the corridor before he spoke again, a habit more than a fear. No one lingered there. No unfamiliar silhouettes. Just the steady hum, the faint flicker of light overhead, the wind brushing past in gentle currents.
"I have something urgent to report," Soren said.
He kept his voice low, careful, pitched just above the hum. Not secrecy—consideration.
Atticus did not answer immediately.
His eyes moved over Soren with a sharp, assessing focus that missed nothing. The pallor at his skin. The set of his shoulders. The way his breathing held just a fraction tighter than usual. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Atticus exhaled.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Soren noticed it all the same—the brief release of breath, the way Atticus's gaze softened by the barest degree before returning to clarity. Something in his eyes wavered for a heartbeat too short to name.
Restraint, perhaps.
"Come in," Atticus said.
Soren hesitated only a fraction of a second before stepping forward. The door slid shut behind him, sealing them inside.
The captain's quarters were larger than most, but not indulgent. A broad desk occupied the far side of the room, its surface neatly arranged—slates stacked, papers aligned, a few instruments laid out with deliberate precision. A chair sat opposite it, unoccupied. To the side, the bed was unmade, sheets pulled back where Atticus had risen quickly.
The air inside was warmer than the corridor, holding the faint scent of metal and fabric and something distinctly Atticus—clean, restrained, familiar.
Atticus crossed the room without haste, moving toward the bed before turning back. He gestured toward the chair by the desk.
"Sit."
The word was not unkind. It was not sharp. It was simply a directive.
Soren obeyed, lowering himself into the chair. The distance between them was not great—close enough that the presence of the other was undeniable, but far enough to maintain the boundary Atticus always seemed to carry with him.
Atticus sat on the edge of the bed rather than behind the desk, his posture straight, forearms resting lightly against his thighs. He did not dress further. He did not reach for his coat.
"Report," he said.
Soren drew in a measured breath.
He began with the facts.
"I encountered an individual in the lower-deck rest bay," he said. "Before dawn. He addressed me by name."
Atticus held his gaze.
"Go on."
"The man spoke Theerin," Soren continued. "Not accented Roenin. Theerin dialect. Distinct."
That did it.
Atticus's expression did not change outwardly, but something in his focus shifted, tightening, sharpening further. His fingers flexed once against his knee.
"You are certain," he said.
"Yes," Soren replied without hesitation. "I've recorded Theerian before. On land. The cadence, the register—it wasn't imitation."
"How many?" Atticus asked.
"I don't know," Soren said. "I've only confirmed one. Possibly more."
Atticus nodded once, slow.
"Behavior?"
"Confident," Soren said after a moment's thought. "Integrated. He moved like he belonged there. No visible disruption. No overt threat."
"And yet you're here," Atticus said quietly.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Soren held his gaze.
"Because he knew my name," he said. "And because he spoke as though that knowledge was expected."
Silence settled between them.
Atticus leaned back slightly, his eyes lifting—not away from Soren, but inward, as though mapping possibilities against known parameters. When he spoke again, his voice was measured.
"You didn't confront him."
"No."
"You didn't follow."
"No."
"You didn't alert anyone else."
"No."
Atticus's gaze returned fully to him.
"You came directly to me."
"Yes."
Something eased then—not in Atticus's posture, but in the tension that had coiled invisibly beneath it. He nodded once.
"That was the correct decision," he said.
The words landed with weight.
Soren felt his shoulders loosen a fraction, though he had not realized they were tense.
Atticus rose then, moving with quiet efficiency to the desk. He did not sit. Instead, he activated a slate, its surface lighting faintly as he skimmed through information only he could see.
"The Aurelius has not logged any unauthorized boarding," he said. "Nor any deviation significant enough to trigger automated response."
"That doesn't surprise me," Soren replied.
"No," Atticus agreed. "It wouldn't."
He paused, then looked back at Soren. "Have you noticed anything else?"
Soren did not answer immediately.
"Yes," he said finally. "The wind. The sustained irregularity. Increased lower-deck activity during hours that don't warrant it. Minor anomalies that resolve before they escalate."
Atticus's mouth tightened slightly.
"They've learned the ship," he said. It was not a question.
"Yes."
Atticus turned away again, his fingers moving swiftly across the slate. Orders, Soren realized. Quiet ones. The kind that would ripple through the chain of command without ever announcing themselves.
"We'll proceed carefully," Atticus said. "I'll notify the officers. Discreetly. No announcements. No visible change in protocol."
Soren nodded.
"You," Atticus continued, turning back to him, "will do nothing further."
Soren blinked.
"Captain—"
"You've done your part," Atticus said, his tone firm but not dismissive. "From this point on, you observe only if it does not place you at risk."
He stepped closer then, stopping just short of Soren's personal space.
"Do not pursue," he said quietly. "Do not investigate. And if you are approached again—by anyone—you report it to me immediately."
Soren met his gaze.
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus studied him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. His eyes flicked briefly to Soren's face, his posture, the faint tension still held in his frame.
"You don't look well," Atticus said.
Soren almost smiled at that.
"I'm managing."
Atticus did not look convinced.
"Go back to your quarters," he said. "Rest. If the medic insists, listen to him."
A pause.
"That's an order."
Soren inclined his head. "Understood."
Atticus stepped back then, already reaching for his coat, his attention shifting decisively toward action.
"I'll handle the rest," he said.
Soren rose.
For a brief moment, they stood facing one another in the quiet of the captain's quarters—the weight of unspoken things held carefully between them, neither crossing the line.
Then Soren turned and left.
Behind him, Atticus was already moving, the Aurelius responding once more to its captain's command.
_________________________