By the time the third day rolled over into its mid-morning cycle, Soren could feel the difference in himself.
It wasn't anything dramatic. He hadn't suddenly become louder or more confident. But his steps felt more certain. He knew where the bulkheads dipped slightly, where the walls narrowed, which corners people tended to cut too sharply. He knew which section of the mess line moved fastest, and when the deck would be quietest.
He knew how the Aurelius sounded when she was simply moving forward, and how that was different from when someone was adjusting something below.
It felt… reassuring.
He finished his breakfast a little later than usual. The mess hall had been buzzing more than normal—Bram had been loudly insisting that today would be "uneventful," and everyone else had taken turns declaring that he'd just doomed them by saying so.
"Don't use that word," Nell had said, dramatically clutching his chest. "You can't just announce that nothing's going to happen. That's cursed talk."
"Nothing is going to happen," Bram had repeated, firmly, just to irritate him.
Soren had eaten quietly, listening and filing the exchange away—not as important information, but as part of the ship's social fabric.
After returning his tray, he stepped into the corridor, intending to go back to his upper-level alcove.
He didn't make it that far.
___________________________________________________________________________
"Eryndor!"
The voice came from behind him, clipped but not harsh.
Soren turned.
Marcell Dayne stood a few paces away, arms folded loosely. His posture never seemed entirely relaxed, but right now he looked more focused than tense.
"Yes, sir?" Soren asked.
"Captain wants you on the main deck," Marcell said. "We're running drills."
"Drills?" Soren echoed.
"Standard safety drill," Marcell clarified. "Evacuation paths, emergency procedures, response timing. It happens early in every long-range expedition. You'll document it."
Soren nodded. "Understood. I'll head there now."
"Good. Stick near the central table unless instructed otherwise," Marcell added. "You don't want to be standing in the way when people start moving."
"I'll keep that in mind," Soren said.
Marcell gave a short nod and moved past him, already on his way back to the deck.
Soren adjusted the strap of his satchel and followed.
___________________________________________________________________________
When he stepped onto the main deck, the atmosphere had changed.
It wasn't tense. No one looked frightened. But people were more alert than usual—ears tuned, movements crisp. There was a specific focus in the air, the way there sometimes was in the archive before an inspection.
Atticus stood near the helm with Cassian beside him, both facing the rest of the crew. Marcell had taken a position slightly off to the side, arms behind his back.
Nell, Tamsin, Liora, Bram, Everett, Elion, Rysen, Ivor, and several other crew members were spread across the deck in loose clusters. Some leaned lightly against railings; others stood with their hands at their sides, waiting.
Soren stepped toward the central table and stayed there, as Marcell had suggested.
Atticus's eyes swept the room once—quick, efficient.
"Drill will begin in three minutes," he said. His voice carried easily through the space without needing to rise. "This is a full-cycle simulation. Treat it as real unless otherwise specified."
No one groaned. No one complained.
Tamsin called out from near the manifest station, "Log sheets are ready."
"Medical response ready," Rysen said.
"Engineering ready," Liora added.
"Navigational recalibration ready," Elion reported, one hand already resting near the route controls.
Atticus nodded once. "Good."
He glanced toward Cassian, who stepped forward slightly.
"The purpose of this drill," Cassian said, voice even, "is not only to test reaction speed. It is to ensure that everyone understands their positions, routes, and responsibilities in the event of a real emergency. Do not rush mindlessly. Move with accuracy."
He let the words settle before stepping back.
Atticus looked over to Soren. It wasn't a long look, but it was direct.
"You'll observe and record," he said. "You do not participate in this round. Stay clear of the main paths. Note the sequence and any visible confusion points."
"Yes, Captain," Soren said.
He was aware of the slight weight of the pen in his hand, even though he hadn't lifted it yet.
Atticus turned his attention back to the crew.
"Positions," he called.
The deck moved.
___________________________________________________________________________
Nell moved quickly to one side of the deck, checking the nearest emergency storage hatch. Tamsin took position near the central manifest station, clipboard ready but not yet writing. Bram and Liora split, one heading to the engine access panel, the other toward a bank of auxiliary controls.
Everett moved to a secondary console, pulling down a switch panel with practiced ease. Elion stood at the navigation station, eyes already flicking between dials and projected coordinates.
Rysen and Ivor coordinated quietly, dividing responsibility between two assigned response points.
Soren stepped back slightly, positioning himself near the wall so that he could see most of the floor without being in anyone's way.
Atticus waited until everyone was set.
Then he said calmly, "Beginning simulation. Scenario three."
Soren didn't know what "scenario three" meant, but the crew clearly did.
A repeating chime sounded—a clear, insistent tone that echoed through the deck. It wasn't as piercing as a real alarm would be, but it carried enough urgency to set everyone in motion.
"Section two—pressure breach!" Marcell called. "Portside corridor. Evacuation route B engaged."
People moved.
Nell opened the emergency hatch and retrieved a coiled line. Tamsin started counting under her breath, eyes sharp as she watched who moved where. Bram disappeared down a stairwell, his footsteps fading quickly. Liora adjusted controls near the engine panel to simulate a partial reroute of power.
Rysen and Ivor each took positions at different intersections, clearly meant to simulate triage or response points.
Soren's pen moved almost on its own.
He watched the flow of bodies—not in a detached way, but with a quiet, focused attention. Who moved first. Who hesitated. Where the paths converged and where they split.
Despite the speed, it wasn't chaos. There were no collisions, no shouted arguments. People called instructions when necessary, but most of what happened seemed based on habit drilled into them long before this.
"Time?" Atticus asked.
"Forty-two seconds to full dispersal," Tamsin replied.
"Too slow," Cassian said calmly. "Last expedition's record was thirty-eight."
"We'll match it," Tamsin said, already noting something down.
The drill continued.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren noticed small details.
Nell moved quickly, but always checked behind him before rounding a corner, making sure he wouldn't barrel into someone.
Elion never left her station, but her attention was everywhere—eyes scanning, adjusting, recalculating simulated path variances.
Bram returned to the deck more winded than when he'd left but didn't pause, moving immediately to his secondary position.
Liora made deliberate, controlled adjustments—never jerking a lever, never flicking a switch with unnecessary force.
Rysen scanned faces as people passed his position, even though this was only a drill. He wasn't treating it as pretend.
Ivor moved more quietly but with no less precision—cross-checking pathways, verifying that no one had taken the wrong route.
The simulation went through several phases.
"Breached hull temporarily stabilized."
"Secondary system compromise."
"Evacuation route obstructed—reroute to path C."
Each new call shifted the pattern slightly, but the crew adapted.
Soren wrote quickly, keeping his observations simple and direct. He didn't have the full technical context, but he didn't need it yet. His job now was to capture the shape of what he saw.
He felt… oddly calmer than he'd anticipated. The movement around him was intense but not confusing. The ship's fabric—the people, the roles, the paths—made more sense when tested like this.
___________________________________________________________________________
Through it all, Atticus remained near the helm.
He didn't stand still—he moved just enough to see each line of sight, each corridor, each console. But he didn't rush. He didn't raise his voice. When he called out adjustments, they were short and clear.
"Engineering, simulate partial power failure."
"Navigation, adjust for drift on the starboard side."
"Medical, assume one responder down—redistribute."
People responded without hesitation.
Cassian watched as well, arms folded, occasionally offering a quiet comment to Atticus or Marcell. Marcell shifted his position as needed, filling in communication gaps, reinforcing timings.
Soren thought, fleetingly, that this was like watching a living diagram—lines of motion and response radiating outward and looping back.
If he had been asked to describe the crew before, he would have said they were competent.
Now he had proof.
___________________________________________________________________________
The chime tone changed—slower, less urgent.
"End simulation," Atticus said. "Stand down."
Movement eased.
People returned to the deck, some breathing harder, some wiping sweat from their brows. The atmosphere relaxed a few degrees, but no one slumped. They were too used to this.
"Time to full deployment: thirty-nine seconds," Tamsin reported. "We shaved three off after the first phase."
"Still one over last record," Cassian observed.
"We'll beat it next time," Tamsin replied.
"You will," Cassian said, and that seemed to satisfy her.
Atticus looked over the crew.
"Good," he said. "We'll review the paths again in two days. If this were real, we would want every second we could get."
There were nods across the deck.
Soren lowered his pen, flexing his fingers slightly.
Atticus's gaze found him.
"Memoirist," he said. "You've seen one drill now. Later, write both what you observed and how it felt to you. Both are relevant."
"Yes, Captain," Soren said.
He meant it.
___________________________________________________________________________
Atticus turned back to the crew, but Soren had the sense that this wasn't quite finished—not for him.
The drill was over, but the day was just starting.
And his record of this ship was only beginning to deepen.
___________________________________________________________________________
As the simulated alarm faded entirely, the deck shifted from coordinated urgency back into its usual, layered rhythm.
Rysen rolled his shoulders once, easing out the tension from standing so alertly. Ivor scribbled something quickly onto a small pad, likely notes for later refinement. Liora crouched down to check one of the secondary panels, hands moving with the same care she used even when things weren't at stake.
Nell flopped back against a railing with exaggerated weariness.
"I survived," he announced.
"You were never in danger," Tamsin said, flipping her clipboard shut.
"Emotional danger," Nell clarified.
"You don't have emotions," Bram muttered as he emerged from the stairwell, breathing a little heavier than before.
Nell placed a hand over his heart. "That's hurtful."
Soren watched from his place near the wall, pen resting lightly against his notebook.
In the archive, drills had existed mostly on parchment and in theory. Here, they were lived—full-body rehearsals with sound and motion and sweat. The difference was stark.
Atticus stepped forward a fraction, drawing attention back without needing to raise his voice.
"Good work," he said. "We'll run another variation later this week. Until then, review your assigned paths. If you were redirected, memorize that route as well. Emergencies rarely follow the first plan."
There were murmurs of acknowledgment. No one seemed surprised. This was routine for them.
Marcell's gaze skimmed the deck. "You have ten minutes to cool down and hydrate. After that, resume standard tasks."
People began to disperse.
Some lingered near the water station. Others gravitated toward their usual posts. The energy of the room settled into something quieter but brisk, like a tide receding after a controlled wave.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren stepped away from the wall and moved to the central table, laying his notebook flat.
He took a moment to look over his shorthand, making sure his observations were clear enough that he'd be able to understand them later when transcribing. Arrows marked directions of motion. Short phrases captured tone and response.
He added a few small clarifications:
|| — no collisions despite overlapping paths
|| — timing between announcements and response very short
|| — no visible panic; all motion purposeful
He tapped the pen lightly once, thinking.
A shadow fell across the page.
"You kept up," a familiar voice said.
Soren looked up.
Cassian stood beside him, not directly over his shoulder but close enough to have seen part of the page. His gaze wasn't intrusive, just calmly observant.
"I tried to stay out of the way," Soren replied.
"You did," Cassian said. "That's the first step. The second is seeing more than you think you should be able to."
Soren tilted his head slightly. "You mean…?"
Cassian nodded toward the notebook. "You noted the absence of collisions. Good. Most people only notice when something goes wrong. Fewer remember to record what went right."
"That seems important," Soren said.
"It is," Cassian replied. "The Council and the Bureau will ask what failed. But they also need to know what functioned exactly as it should. Both shape policy."
He paused, then added, "Don't undervalue routine efficiency in your record. It's not dull. It's proof that training works."
Soren nodded. "I'll remember that."
Cassian gave a quiet, approving sound and stepped back. "If you want to see how this drill looks from the bulkhead route, ask Marcell next time. He runs the drills as if they're real engagements."
"I'll keep that in mind," Soren said.
Cassian inclined his head once, then returned to the helm, already speaking in a low voice with Atticus.
___________________________________________________________________________
Rysen approached the water station, filling a metal cup from the spout. He took a measured drink, then noticed Soren at the table.
"First drill?" he asked.
Soren nodded. "Yes."
Rysen walked over, cup in hand. "How did it feel?"
"Structured," Soren said after a moment. "Fast, but not frantic."
"That's the goal," Rysen said. "Simulation only, but your body doesn't always care about that distinction."
"You mean adrenaline," Soren said.
Rysen's mouth curved slightly. "Exactly. Some people shake after their first drill. Some get lightheaded. Some feel nothing until later."
"I feel… fine," Soren said. Then, because he'd been trained to be honest when asked directly, he added, "More alert than before."
"That's normal," Rysen said. "Good normal."
He glanced at the notebook. "Did you get enough to work with?"
"I think so," Soren said. "At least from what I can see at my level."
"If you have gaps," Rysen said, "ask. Don't guess why someone moved to a certain position. Just ask the person assigned to it. Less risk of misinterpretation."
"I will," Soren said.
Rysen gave a short nod. "Bring water with you next time, if you can. Drills can run longer than you expect."
"Understood," Soren replied.
Rysen finished his drink, set the empty cup in the collection bin, and moved off toward the medical bay, already sliding back into his usual routine.
___________________________________________________________________________
Tamsin approached the central table shortly afterward, dropping her clipboard onto the surface with a soft thud.
She glanced at Soren. "You were watching?"
"Yes," Soren said.
"Did you catch the delay near the forward hatch?" she asked.
Soren thought back. "The one when two of the deckhands hesitated at the intersection?"
"Mn." Tamsin flipped through her notes. "They misremembered which route was active under scenario three. Took them three seconds to correct. That's three seconds we don't get back if there's a real breach."
Soren nodded. "Will they be reassigned?"
"No," Tamsin said. "They'll repeat until they stop hesitating. It's fixable."
She tapped her pen against the column where she'd recorded times. "You should add that detail. The hesitation, I mean. But also that they corrected themselves without orders."
"That seems important," Soren agreed.
"It is," Tamsin said. "I want a record that's accurate, not dramatic."
"You and the captain agree on that," Soren said.
"Good," Tamsin replied. "Then we'll have fewer arguments later."
She picked up her clipboard again and walked away, already calling out a reminder to Nell about labeling the new route diagrams.
___________________________________________________________________________
The deck gradually settled back into its standard pattern.
The chime that had signaled the drill faded into memory, leaving only the steady thrum of the engine and the occasional clatter of tools, footsteps, and quiet voices.
Soren stayed at the table, refining his notes.
He broke them into two columns on the page:
|| Observation
|| Interpretation
Under Observation, he wrote:
|| — Drill initiated under "scenario three."
|| — Simulated breach in section two; portside.
|| — Crew deployed from deck to assigned positions within 39 seconds.
|| — No visible confusion in primary routes; brief hesitation at forward hatch intersection.
|| — Captain remained at helm; Vice-Captain and Scholar-General coordinated oversight.
Under Interpretation, he wrote:
|| — Training appears effective; crew clearly familiar with routes.
|| — Minor delay indicates need for reinforcement of scenario-specific route memory.
|| — Overall response suggests existing protocol is functional.
When he leaned back and looked at the page, it felt… balanced. Not dramatic. Not flat. Just clear.
He closed the notebook halfway, letting the ink dry.
___________________________________________________________________________
Soren was tucking the notebook back into his satchel when he sensed someone stop near the table.
He looked up.
Atticus stood a few steps away.
He wasn't looming; he had simply approached without Soren hearing, the way he often did when moving with intent rather than urgency.
"Captain," Soren said.
"How did the drill look from your position?" Atticus asked.
"Efficient," Soren said. "Structured. I didn't see anything that suggested panic."
"Good," Atticus replied. "And what did you see that needs improvement?"
Soren thought back. "The hesitation at the forward hatch. Tamsin mentioned it as well."
Atticus nodded once. "We'll adjust. Anything else?"
"Not that I could identify clearly," Soren admitted. "I don't yet know what optimal looks like in practice."
"That will come," Atticus said. "You're not expected to understand everything after one drill. But you saw enough."
He paused. "Were you comfortable where you were standing?"
"Yes," Soren said. "I could see most of the deck. And I wasn't in anyone's way."
"Good," Atticus said. "Next time, you'll observe from a secondary corridor. We'll assign you a vantage point along one of the bulkhead routes. It will give you a different perspective."
"I'd like that," Soren said.
Atticus studied him for a moment—measured, quiet.
"Remember what we discussed in my office," he said. "Separate what happened from what you believe it means. Label both."
"I have," Soren said. "I split my notes into two columns."
"Good," Atticus repeated, and this time there was a faint hint of something like satisfaction in his voice. "Keep doing that. You'll thank yourself later."
Soren nodded.
Atticus glanced once toward the helm, where Cassian and Marcell were already discussing something over a chart.
"We'll likely hold another drill in three days," Atticus said. "You can plan your observation time around that."
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus gave a short, final nod, then turned and walked back toward the helm, his presence folding neatly back into the command center of the ship.
Soren watched him go for a brief second before lowering his gaze.
The conversation had been short, but it left a clear imprint—another small thread connecting his work to the larger structure of the expedition.
___________________________________________________________________________
When the deck's activity reached its usual rhythm again, Soren stepped away.
He made his way up the narrow stairs to the upper-level alcove—the same one outside the captain's office. The corridor was empty, the small window casting a soft light across the bench.
He sat and opened the memoir.
Turning to the next blank space, he wrote:
|| Day Three — Mid-morning.
|| First ship-wide safety drill conducted under scenario three. Response time: 39 seconds to full deployment. Crew movement swift, coordinated, largely free of confusion. One brief hesitation near forward hatch; self-corrected.
He paused, then added:
||Training and structure clearly ingrained. Atmosphere serious but not fearful. Drill felt like an extension of routine rather than an interruption.
He let the pen rest for a moment.
No dramatics.
No exaggeration.
Just what happened, and how it felt.
He set the memoir aside and rested his head briefly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for a moment as the low hum of the Aurelius filled the quiet space around him.
The ship moved steadily forward.
And so, little by little, did he.
___________________________________________________________________________