The Aurelius had been airborne long enough for the engine's roar to settle into something steadier—no longer the strained growl of a vessel fighting gravity, but the hum of a creature finally in its natural element. The vibrations beneath the floorboards felt smoother now, a consistent thrum that Soren began to recognize as the ship's heartbeat.
He stood in the corridor outside his cabin, one hand lightly touching the wall. The metal was warm from the engine heat running through the pipes. The lights overhead buzzed softly, their glow reflecting in faint lines along the steel panels.
Soren exhaled, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
The weight of the memoir sat against his side. Familiar, grounding. Even though everything else in his surroundings was unfamiliar, the book itself was a small anchor—something he understood.
He took a step forward.
Boots tapping lightly against metal, he followed the ascending corridor until it opened into the main deck.
___________________________________________________________________________
The difference was immediate.
Gone was the intensity of takeoff—the shouts over engine noise, tools clattering, the urgency of adjusting last-minute straps. Now the deck had shifted into a calmer rhythm.
People still moved quickly, but they moved with purpose rather than haste.
Tamsin Crowe stood near the central table, several manifests spread in front of her. She tapped the end of her pencil against her clipboard with sharp, precise movements.
Farther left, Bram Cutter knelt beneath a maintenance panel, half his body hidden as he hammered deliberately at some uncooperative hinge.
Liora Wynn had her head buried inside an open engine casing, goggles perched on her forehead. The faint, high-pitched whine of a turbine adjusting itself resonated through the panel she was working on.
Nell passed from one end of the deck to the other, carrying tools, small crates, and occasionally muttering to himself as he mentally tracked where each item belonged.
Everett Caelum stood at a workstation near the panoramic windows, flipping through several sheets of paper—pages filled with numbers and short notes written in exact handwriting.
Soren stepped closer.
Everett noticed him immediately.
"You're settling in," Everett said, tucking a sheet under another page. "Good. Here."
He handed Soren a small stack of clipped documents.
"Preliminary data the Bureau provided," Everett explained. "Not required reading yet, but beneficial."
Soren accepted the pages. The text was dense—star positioning discrepancies, unexplained compass deviations, environmental readings from previous expeditions near frontier regions.
"Do you want me to review these today?" Soren asked.
"No," Everett said. "You'll absorb more when the ship feels familiar. Just keep them close."
Soren nodded. "Thank you."
Everett inclined his head slightly—acknowledgment, nothing more—and walked toward the navigation area.
Soren followed at a slower pace.
___________________________________________________________________________
Elion Penn was surrounded by maps. Rolls of parchment unfurled across the table, rulers and compasses scattered like tools abandoned mid-mission. She had one foot tucked behind the other as she leaned, posture relaxed but deeply focused.
Everett approached her without calling her name.
Elion looked up on instinct.
Her expression brightened, then steadied. She reached out and shifted a section of the map aside without being asked, clearing space for the documents Everett carried.
"Updated wind readings?" she guessed.
"Correct."
Elion exhaled in relief. "Good. Perfect."
Everett placed the papers down. "You can adjust the drift markers now."
"Engine's steady enough for it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Oh." Elion grabbed a pencil. "Okay."
Their interaction was short—almost clipped—but smooth. Each movement matched the other's rhythm, like tasks they'd done hundreds of times.
Soren glanced only briefly, then respectfully stepped back. He didn't know enough about their workflow to linger close without being in the way.
He turned toward the panoramic window instead.
__________________________________________________________________________
Out beyond the glass, clouds stretched long and pale, layered in soft streaks. The horizon dipped gently, the world beneath reduced to muted colors.
Soren rested his hands lightly against the railing. The metal vibrated beneath his palms.
The ship felt solid.
Steady.
He let the view settle into him.
Then, from beside him—
"You like the view?"
Nell had appeared again, carrying a half-empty crate.
"Yes," Soren answered honestly.
Nell leaned against the rail with his elbows. "It's good, right? Makes the world feel bigger. Or smaller. Depends on the day."
Soren glanced at him. "Which does it feel like today?"
Nell considered it, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Bigger. We're far enough from land that the sky starts taking over. It's comforting to some people."
"And to you?" Soren asked.
"I like when the sky is calm," Nell said. "Makes the day predictable. Predictability keeps the ship happy."
"Ships can be happy?" Soren asked.
"Some more than others."
It was said casually, as if it were common knowledge.
Before Soren could respond, Tamsin shouted from across the deck:
"Nell! Did you move crate 6-G or am I losing my mind?"
"You're not losing your mind!" Nell called back. "I moved it earlier!"
"Then put it back!" Tamsin snapped.
Nell winced. "Duty calls."
He straightened, lifting the crate with practiced ease. "If you need help navigating later, find me. The corridors twist more than you think."
"I will," Soren said.
Nell jogged off.
Soren returned his gaze to the sky, exhaling softly.
He liked the quiet.
__________________________________________________________________________
Eventually, curiosity nudged him toward the side corridor branching off the deck.
He followed it until he reached a narrow walkway that curved along the hull. The windows here were smaller but cleaner, framed by thick bolts that glinted faintly in the sunlight.
The air felt cooler in this corridor—less crowded, less filled with body heat and engine warmth.
Soren approached the nearest window and leaned toward it, watching the clouds below ripple in the ship's wake.
He stayed like that for a few minutes before he heard footsteps again.
"Elion?" he guessed quietly.
And he was right.
Elion appeared at the far end of the walkway, holding a rolled parchment in one hand and tapping her wristband with the other.
She froze mid-step when she noticed him.
"Oh—Soren. I didn't think anyone came down this way this early."
"It's quiet," he said simply.
"It is." Elion walked toward him, her footsteps soft. "I like this place. When I can't think, I come here."
"The deck seems busy," Soren noted.
"It always is," Elion said. "But here, the sound changes."
She tilted her head as though listening.
"You can hear the sky better in this corridor."
Soren wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he nodded.
Elion checked her wristband again. "Route markers need adjusting. I should get back."
She hesitated, then added, "If you ever need help finding anything, I'm usually at navigation. Or here. Or somewhere between here and navigation."
"I'll remember that," Soren said.
Elion smiled briefly, then hurried away.
The corridor settled into silence again.
Soren stayed a few minutes longer.
_________________________________________________________________________
He eventually made his way downward, following a narrow stairwell to the storage deck.
The air changed immediately—cooler, tinged with the earthy scent of wood and rope. Crates lined the walls in towering stacks, some secured with thick straps, others marked with chalk symbols that Soren couldn't yet decipher.
He stepped carefully between aisles, examining the labels.
Then—
"Not that way."
A hand touched his shoulder lightly, guiding him one step to the right.
Soren turned.
Rysen Vale stood there holding a lantern. Its warm glow softened the edges of the crates behind him.
"That plate is unstable," Rysen said. "It tilts when the ship banks."
"Oh," Soren said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Rysen's gaze moved over the area, assessing automatically. He shifted the lantern slightly.
"Exploring the ship?"
"Yes."
"It's a good habit," Rysen said. "Helps you orient yourself when things get busy."
He nodded toward the far aisle. "Avoid that row for now. Nell hasn't secured the crates there."
Soren smiled a little. "Nell mentioned that the storage deck 'finds its balance eventually.'"
Rysen huffed a soft breath—close to a laugh. "That's one way of putting it."
He adjusted the lantern and stepped aside. "If you feel unsteady later or get a headache, come to the medical bay. It's common on the first day."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Good."
Rysen began walking deeper into the storage section, lantern swaying lightly. "Enjoy the rest of your rounds."
Soren watched him go before turning back toward the stairwell.
The storage deck felt larger than it looked, full of quiet corners. He knew he'd return.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren climbed back up from the storage deck, taking the steps slowly.
The noise changed with each level. Below, the sounds had been muffled—crates shifting, distant metal knocks. As he rose, the hum of the engine grew rounder, joined by faint voices and the soft squeak of boots on metal flooring.
By the time he reached the main deck again, the space had shifted into another phase of work.
Tamsin had moved from the central table to the far wall, checking off items as Nell carried in small boxes from the storage level. Bram had reappeared, his hands stained with grease, arguing with Liora about something involving torque and "overcompensating for imaginary problems."
Everett had relocated to a smaller console near the window, writing notes into a slim journal. Elion was back at the navigation table, one hand braced on the surface while she scribbled adjustments to the route lines.
Soren lingered near the doorway for a moment, taking it all in.
He still felt like an observer.
But the scene no longer felt impenetrably foreign.
___________________________________________________________________________
Everett glanced up from his journal and noticed him.
"Finished your tour?" Everett asked.
"For now," Soren said. "I think I've seen half the ship."
"That's already more than some passengers manage in two weeks," Everett replied. "How does it feel?"
"Larger inside than it looks from the harbor," Soren said. "But… organized."
Everett made a small approving sound. "Good. You'll find it easier to write if you can picture where everything is when you mention it."
He nodded toward the satchel at Soren's side. "Did you write anything yet?"
"Just the basics," Soren admitted. "Departure. Crew briefing. Nothing detailed."
"That's more than nothing," Everett replied. "You don't have to fill the pages quickly. Just accurately."
Soren relaxed a little at that. "I'll try not to overthink it."
"Overthinking is useful when recording," Everett said dryly. "Just don't let it stop you from observing."
He returned to his notes, leaving Soren to interpret the advice however he liked.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren moved toward the panoramic window again.
The sky had shifted slightly. The ship was cutting through thinner clouds now, leaving a faint trail of disturbed air in its wake. The light felt sharper, more direct.
He rested his hands on the rail, fingers spread.
Footsteps approached from the stairwell.
Atticus emerged, followed by Marcell Dayne and Cassian Wolfe. The three walked in a small formation without needing to coordinate it—Atticus at the center, Marcell slightly behind and to the left, Cassian to the right.
They crossed the deck with purpose.
Marcell spoke quietly about wing balance; Cassian responded with something about route timing. Atticus listened more than he spoke, occasionally giving a short answer or nod.
As they passed Soren, Atticus' gaze slipped toward him for the briefest moment. Not searching—simply registering presence.
"Memoirist," he said, a simple acknowledgment.
"Captain," Soren replied.
Atticus continued on, stopping near the navigation table to consult Elion about the projected course.
Soren turned back to the glass.
The exchange had been small, almost insignificant.
But it was the first time Atticus had addressed him outside of formal context.
He didn't dwell on it, but he remembered it.
__________________________________________________________________________
It wasn't long before the scent of something mild and herbal drifted across the deck.
Nell appeared again, this time balancing a tray with a metal teapot and a few mismatched cups. He stopped at the central table, where Tamsin had just finished marking another row of boxes on her list.
"Break time?" Nell suggested.
"I don't take breaks," Tamsin said.
"You say that," Nell replied, "but you still drink tea when I pour it."
He set a cup down near her papers and poured without waiting for permission. Tamsin glared, but she didn't push the cup away.
Nell looked over at Soren.
"Want some?" he called.
Soren hesitated. "Is there enough?"
"There's always enough for one more," Nell said. "Unless Bram shows up early."
"I heard that," Bram's voice came from somewhere under a console.
"Exactly," Nell replied cheerfully.
Soren joined them at the table.
Nell poured him a cup—steam lightly curling upward, carrying the scent of something floral and faintly citrus.
"It's one of Liora's blends," Nell said. "She experiments."
"Volunteers us as test subjects," Tamsin muttered, but she took a sip anyway.
Soren tried the tea.
It was simple, warm, not too strong. He could taste hints of something like chamomile, maybe a little mint. Nothing aggressive.
"It's good," he said.
"Liora will be pleased," Nell said. "She pretends she doesn't care if people like it, but she checks the empty cups."
From near the engine access panel, Liora said, without looking up, "I do not."
Nell smiled into his cup.
Soren didn't say much. He didn't feel the need to. Just standing there, listening to the back-and-forth, drinking something warm, felt like enough.
He could already sense the pattern of how these people functioned together—small frictions, little jokes, an undercurrent of competence beneath all of it.
___________________________________________________________________________
When the tea was gone and the deck began to buzz a little louder again, Soren excused himself with a quiet nod.
He returned down the corridor to his cabin.
The door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the hum of voices and leaving only the engine's steady vibration.
He set his satchel on the fold-out desk, then lowered himself onto the bunk for a moment, staring at the ceiling panel.
It felt strange to be somewhere that was always moving. Even sitting still, he could feel the faint pull of momentum beneath his body.
After a few breaths, he sat up.
He unpacked the Bureau documents Everett had given him, spreading them across the small desk surface. The pages were filled with tightly packed text and numbers—previous expedition reports that had reached the frontier regions but had been forced to turn back.
Most of the notes followed similar structures:
1 "Compass readings briefly inconsistent."
2 "Star positions difficult to match to existing charts."
3 "Minor discrepancies between visual observation and recorded maps."
Nothing dramatic.
Just fragments of incomplete understanding.
Soren read steadily, pausing now and then to underline a phrase or add a tiny symbol in the margin. He wasn't drawing conclusions—not yet. He was just letting the information sink into his awareness.
After a while, his eyes began to feel heavy.
He leaned back slightly, stretching his shoulders.
The cabin was quiet.
Everett and Elion were likely still on duty.
For a moment, Soren wondered what the ship would feel like at night—how the hum would sound when most people were asleep, when the corridors were emptier. He tried to imagine the deck lit only by a few lamps, the sky outside even darker than the engine core.
He would see it eventually.
There would be plenty of nights ahead.
___________________________________________________________________________
He reached for his satchel and drew out the memoir.
The dark leather looked almost the same as it had in the archive building, but it felt different now that the pages had left the ground behind.
He opened to the first page.
|| Memoir of the Aurelius Expedition
|| Day 1 — Departure.
|| Crew briefing: roles assigned.
The ink had dried cleanly.
He considered what to add.
He thought of Nell and the tea.
Of Elion on the observation walkway, listening to the sky.
Of Rysen guiding him off an unstable floor plate.
Of Everett's quiet confidence in giving him the Bureau records.
Of Tamsin's sharp focus.
Of the way the deck no longer felt overwhelming, just busy.
He dipped his pen and wrote:
|| Crew adapting smoothly to airborne routine. Atmosphere orderly, not tense. Initial impressions: capable, practiced, accustomed to long flights.
He paused, then added one more simple line beneath it:
|| Ship's motion steady; environment feels stable.
He sat back, reading the words over once.
They were plain, but accurate. That felt right for a first day.
He closed the memoir gently and slid it back into the satchel.
___________________________________________________________________________
There was a light knock on his door.
Soren stood and opened it.
Nell stood in the corridor, hands behind his back.
"Hey," Nell said. "Tamsin sent me to make sure you didn't get lost and fall into a supply crate."
"I didn't," Soren said. "Yet."
"Good," Nell replied. "We're about to rotate shifts on the deck. Lunch will be soon. Thought you might want a heads-up before the whole ship decides it's hungry at once."
"Thank you," Soren said. "I'll come up in a bit."
"Take your time," Nell said. "First day is tiring even when nothing happens."
He gave a small, easy wave and walked off, whistling a tune that didn't quite match the engine's rhythm.
Soren watched him disappear around the bend.
He closed the cabin door softly.
___________________________________________________________________________
Back at his desk, he stacked Everett's documents neatly and returned them to a corner of the shelf. The ship shifted very slightly under his feet—a gentle reminder that they were still, always, moving.
He took a moment just to breathe.
In.
Out.
The unfamiliar was still unfamiliar.
But it no longer felt like a wall.
More like a room he'd just stepped into.
One he would slowly learn his way around.
He straightened his coat, adjusted the strap of his satchel once more, and prepared to head back to the main deck.
Day 1 was still far from over.
But for the first time since boarding, he felt like he had found a rhythm he could follow.
He opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the steady hum of the Aurelius greeting him like a low, constant drumbeat.
___________________________________________________________________________