The harbor was already far behind them, but its presence seemed to linger.
Not as a shape on the horizon—the fog and low clouds hid that easily—but as something quieter: the memory of damp wood, the clang of chains, the shouts of dockhands. The Aurelius cut through clean air now, yet Soren could almost still smell the harbor if he focused hard enough.
It felt like standing in a doorway, one foot still in the past, one already in a place with no clear shape yet.
He remained near the railing for a while after takeoff, watching the pale sweep of clouds drift by the reinforced window. From this height, the world was reduced to layers—mist below, sky above, the ship suspended between.
As the engines leveled, the subtle vibrations under his boots settled into a steady, low-frequency hum.
He realized he was still holding his breath.
Soren exhaled and loosened his grip on the rail.
Behind him, the main deck readjusted to the new reality of motion. The frantic rush of departure gave way to a different sort of activity: checking straps again now that they were in the air, reassessing loose items, recalibrating instruments.
Life reorganizing itself.
"Looks good," Nell's voice came lightly from nearby. "Nothing fell over, no crates flew, no one passed out. That's a decent start."
Soren glanced over. Nell was securing a smaller cabinet near the wall, humming something under his breath as he tied the last knot.
"I didn't pass out," Soren said.
Nell looked up with a grin. "Extra points to you, then. Some first-time flyers get sick when we break through the fog layer."
"Have you seen that often?"
"Mm. You'll see it at least once if you're around long enough," Nell replied cheerfully. "Not always passengers, either."
"Not me," Bram muttered from across the room. He was testing the balance of a large wrench in his hand, as if it were a weapon rather than a tool. "I was born on the ground and I'll die in the sky, and I refuse to look weak in either place."
"Nobody asked," Tamsin said, scratching a note onto her clipboard.
Soren hid a small smile and stepped away from the railing, adjusting the satchel strap across his chest.
Now that the ship had stabilized, he felt an internal shift too—the nervous edge smoothing into something quieter. Anticipation. Curiosity. The awareness that he would live on this vessel for weeks, possibly months.
He should start learning the layout. The people. The schedule.
He should start doing his job.
"Mr. Eryndor."
The voice came from behind him—steady, calm.
He turned.
Everett Caelum stood a few steps away, holding a slim stack of papers. In person, he looked exactly as he had in the Ministry's files: slightly disheveled, with hair that refused to stay entirely tidy and spectacles perched low on his nose, giving the impression he'd been pulled away from reading something very important and hadn't quite forgiven the world for it.
"Just Soren is fine," Soren said.
Everett considered this, then nodded. "Soren, then. You're the assigned memoirist, yes?"
"Yes."
Everett shifted the papers in his hands. "Everett Caelum. Expedition archivist. It seems we'll be keeping parallel records—yours for narrative account, mine for collected data."
Soren's interest sparked. "So you've handled expedition records before?"
"Several times," Everett said, with the weary professionalism of someone who had seen more than he preferred to recall. "But this is the first time the Ministry has assigned both an archivist and a dedicated memoirist to the same mission."
"Is that unusual?"
"Very," Everett said. "You must have made an impression."
Soren couldn't tell if that was a compliment or a quiet warning. "Or they're worried."
Everett's gaze sharpened just slightly. "Perhaps both."
Before Soren could ask anything more, footsteps crossed the deck with a distinct rhythm—measured, even, unmistakably in command.
Atticus.
"All crew, gather," the captain said.
The room shifted instantly. People finished what they were doing and moved toward the central space, forming a loose semicircle near one of the bolted tables.
Soren found a place near the edge, between Nell and Everett, clutching his satchel strap out of habit.
Atticus stood at the front, hands loosely folded behind his back, expression calm.
"First," he said, voice carrying clearly without needing to raise it, "this is not a commercial transport designation. You all know that. The Aurelius is on an expedition cleared by the Imperial Council and the Research Mandate Bureau."
No one spoke, but the air shifted. The word expedition carried weight.
Atticus continued. "Our primary objective is to survey and document a region on the imperial frontier where previous mapping has proven unreliable. We are not being deployed as an armed unit, but this is still considered a high-risk mission."
Bram grunted softly, as if proud of that.
"There will be no unnecessary heroics," Atticus added, glancing at him.
Bram shut his mouth.
Atticus turned slightly to indicate the group. "Some of you have flown with me before. Others are new. You've all been briefed on your roles, but I will state them once more so there is no confusion."
His gaze moved systematically.
"Elion Penn—navigator. Your calculations will keep us on route. Any deviation must be reported immediately."
Elion swallowed but nodded. "Understood, Captain."
"Liora Wynn—mechanical systems specialist. You are to monitor engine performance and aether core stability. If anything behaves in a way you do not expect, I want to know."
"Already watching," Liora said, pushing her goggles up onto her head. "You'll be the second to know. The ship will be the first."
"Rowan Vale—medical officer."
Rowan, leaning against a crate with arms folded, nodded once. "If anyone ignores dizziness, nausea, or unexplained pain, I'll know."
"That is not an invitation to test their limits," Atticus said dryly.
A few people chuckled under their breath.
"Nell Ashford—quartermaster assistant. Work with Tamsin on inventory and distribution. Make sure supplies are accounted for and rationed according to schedule."
"Got it," Nell said brightly.
"Tamsin Crowe—logistics overseer. Your reports go to both me and the Mandate Bureau."
Tamsin looked mildly unimpressed by the formality, but nodded. "They'll have them on time."
"Bram Cutter—senior mechanic. Assist Liora. You know the engine from previous runs. You are also responsible for keeping the lower decks in working order."
"I'll keep her heart beating," Bram said. "As long as nobody kicks it."
Atticus didn't comment on that.
He turned to Everett. "Everett Caelum—archivist. Your role is to maintain catalogues of all findings and cross-check with Ministry expectations. Do not lose anything."
Everett's mouth twitched. "I never do, Captain."
Atticus's gaze landed on Soren last.
"And Soren Eryndor—memoirist," he said.
Soren straightened slightly under the collective attention.
"Your responsibility," Atticus continued, "is to maintain a faithful account of the expedition. Events, logistics, interpersonal negotiations, environmental observations, anything of note that might support the official record or future planning."
"Yes, Captain," Soren said.
"You are not required to perform physical labor beyond what is deemed reasonable for safety," Atticus added. "However, you will abide by the same safety regulations as the rest of the crew."
"Of course."
Atticus's expression didn't shift, but something in the line of his shoulders eased—just marginally, like a box being ticked in his mind.
"The Aurelius is expected to remain airborne for an extended period," he went on. "We will follow established sky routes for the first leg. After that, conditions may become less predictable. Until then, I expect everyone to treat this ship as home."
He looked around the group.
"This is not a passenger cruise. You've all chosen to be here. If you have any concerns, air them early. Don't wait until they become problems. Questions?"
There was a brief silence.
Then Bram raised a hand in a half-lazy gesture. "Are we expecting hostile contact? Bandits, sky raiders, anything like that?"
"We're not on a warship," Atticus said. "But the frontier isn't fully regulated. Be prepared for the possibility. We're equipped for defense if necessary."
"Good," Bram muttered.
"Anything else?" Atticus asked.
Nell glanced at Soren, then back at the captain. "Is the memoir official council property?"
Soren blinked, caught by the question.
Atticus's gaze flicked to him, then to Nell. "Yes. The record belongs to the Empire. But it will be under Soren's care until the expedition concludes."
"So we don't touch it." Tamsin's voice was flat.
"That would be wise," Everett added quietly. "The Ministry of Records is very particular about intellectual interference."
Nell mouthed a small, amused oh and gave Soren an apologetic shrug, as if to say he hadn't meant anything serious by the question.
"No other questions?" Atticus asked.
No one spoke.
"Very well," he said. "We'll be on the first route transfer in three hours. Until then, adjust to routine. Tamsin, finalize inventory. Elion, confirm route alignment. Liora, double-check engine readings. The rest of you—work with your leads."
He paused, then added, "Stay efficient. Stay steady."
The informal meeting dissolved.
People drifted back to their tasks, forming clusters of motion and conversation. The air loosened slightly as formal attention drew away from the captain's words and back to the familiar rhythms of work.
Soren remained where he was for a moment, letting it all settle in.
The ship.
The crew.
The assignments.
He wasn't needed for anything immediate. His work would be continuous, but not urgent.
He slipped his memoir out of the satchel once more, opened it to the first page, and glanced at what he'd already written.
|| Memoir of the Aurelius Expedition
|| Day 1 — Departure.
He added a simple line beneath:
|| Crew briefing: roles assigned.
Then stopped.
He could write more—he could describe the captain's tone, the layout of the deck, the fog outside. But there would be time for all that later. Better to observe quietly, listen, and record when there was something truly worth marking.
For now, this was routine.
He closed the book again, thumb resting briefly on the edge of the cover before he returned it to his satchel.
"You're taking this seriously," Nell said, reappearing at his shoulder.
"I don't know how to do it any other way," Soren replied.
Nell laughed softly. "That's probably why they assigned you." He tilted his head toward the corridor. "Want a quick tour before you disappear into note-taking?"
Soren hesitated. "Is there time?"
"Until Tamsin starts shouting my name, yes," Nell said. "Come on. It'll make your life easier if you know where not to get lost."
That was reasonable.
Soren nodded and followed him.
___________________________________________________________________________
Nell led him through the main arteries of the ship—the path most crew would take in their day-to-day movement.
"This is the central corridor," Nell explained. "Mess hall's two doors down; you'll hear Bram before you see it. Medical bay's on the opposite side—Rowan's domain. Try not to show up there unless you must. She pretends not to care, but she keeps track."
"Of… what?" Soren asked.
"How often people ignore their own bodies," Nell said.
They passed several closed doors with neatly printed labels.
"Officers' quarters on that side. Captain's cabin at the end, obviously. Don't knock unless you've got a good reason. Vice-captain's room is next door. The rest of us are down a level."
"And me?" Soren asked.
"You're with us," Nell said, turning down a short stairwell. "Shared lower corridor. Two to four beds per cabin. Hope you don't mind people talking in their sleep."
Soren managed a small smile. "I'll adapt."
Nell slowed and gestured toward a door. "This one's yours. You're with Everett and Elion. I don't think either of them talk in their sleep, but Elion sometimes mutters coordinates when he's stressed."
"That sounds… oddly fitting," Soren said.
Nell grinned. "Exactly."
The cabin was compact but tidy. Three bunks, two small lockers, a fold-out writing shelf, and a small circular porthole currently showing nothing but a blank smear of pale sky.
Soren stepped in and set his satchel on the lowest bunk—the one that had been left empty.
He sat for a moment, letting the ship's permanent hum sink into his bones.
It wasn't comfortable yet.
But it wasn't uncomfortable either.
It was just new.
Nell leaned against the doorframe. "You'll settle in quick. First few days are just adjustment."
"Is it always this… calm?" Soren asked.
"On the first leg?" Nell tilted his head. "Usually. Routine checks, small repairs, map confirmations. People get restless if there's nothing to worry about, but personally I like the quiet."
"Quiet makes room for thinking," Soren said.
"Exactly."
A distant voice called Nell's name—Tamsin's, sharp and precise.
Nell winced. "That's my cue. If you need help finding the mess hall later, just follow the smell of Bram complaining."
"I'll do that," Soren said.
Nell flashed another easy smile and left.
The door clicked shut.
Left alone, Soren leaned back slightly, listening to the muffled sounds of footsteps overhead, the distant clank of something heavy being placed into storage, the constant low thrum of the engine.
It was strange.
He'd grown accustomed to the stillness of archive halls, to the quiet rustle of paper and the slow scrape of chairs on polished floors. This was different—everything moving, everything vibrating, everything in a state of going somewhere.
He liked it.
He reached for his satchel again, opened the memoir once more, and considered adding a few more lines—perhaps about the tour, Nell's kindness, the way roles overlapped.
Instead, he closed it without writing.
There would be time enough for detail.
For now, he simply sat and breathed, letting the reality of being in the sky on an imperial expedition settle deeper into his body.
Above, the ship cut forward through layers of thinning mist and emerging blue.
The harbor—and its familiar ground—disappeared entirely from view.
__________________________________________________________________________