Soren woke with a sense of clarity that surprised him.
Not the lightness of true rest, nor the buoyant ease that sometimes followed uninterrupted sleep—but something cleaner. As though the fog that usually lingered at the edges of his thoughts had been gently pulled aside. His mind felt aligned, alert in a quiet way, thoughts settling into place without resistance.
His body, however, told a different story.
The ache in his ankle announced itself the moment he shifted beneath the covers. Not sharp, not sudden—but deeper than the night before. A persistent throb that radiated outward, settling into the bone with an insistence that made him pause before sitting up.
Soren exhaled slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cool beneath his bare foot. He let his injured ankle hover for a moment before lowering it, testing the weight with care. The ache flared, then stabilized into something manageable. Unpleasant, but not debilitating.
He reached for the ointment on the bedside shelf.
The routine was familiar now. He loosened the dressing carefully, fingers practiced, mindful not to pull too quickly. The skin beneath was faintly flushed, the swelling stubborn but contained. He worked the ointment in with slow, even pressure, letting the medicinal scent rise faintly in the air as warmth spread through the joint.
When he finished, he rewrapped the bandage snugly—not too tight, not too loose—and sat still for a moment longer.
Listening.
The Aurelius was already awake.
The vibration beneath his feet was steady, rhythmic. Not intrusive. Just present. It traveled upward through the structure of the ship and into him, grounding in a way that no stillness ever quite could. He stood there, allowing himself to register it fully, before rising carefully to his feet.
He tested his weight again.
The ankle protested, but held.
Satisfied, Soren moved through the rest of his morning routine with deliberate calm. He changed his clothes slowly, choosing practical layers, adjusting the fit around his leg to avoid unnecessary pressure. By the time he reached for his coat, his movements had settled into a steady rhythm—measured, unhurried.
When he stepped out into the corridor, the ship met him as it always did.
The mid-deck corridor was already active, though not yet crowded. Footsteps echoed at varying distances, voices carried faintly from intersecting passageways. The air was warm with circulation, the hum of the Aurelius threading through it all like a constant undercurrent.
Soren adjusted his pace instinctively, mindful of his ankle.
He had only gone a few steps when a familiar figure came into view from the inner corridor leading toward the crew quarters.
Nell.
She was walking toward him with her shoulders slightly hunched, movements less buoyant than usual. The difference was subtle, but unmistakable once noticed. Her hair was pulled back more loosely than she typically preferred, a few strands escaping near her temples. Dark shadows lingered beneath her eyes, and there was a faint redness there too, as if sleep had been repeatedly postponed rather than missed outright.
She noticed him at the same moment.
"Oh—morning," she said, slowing her steps.
"Morning," Soren replied, inclining his head.
They fell into step beside one another without comment, turning naturally toward the direction of the mess.
"You look…" Nell hesitated, then gave a small, tired smile. "Like you actually slept."
Soren allowed a faint smile in return. "I did. More than expected."
"That must be nice," she muttered lightly.
He glanced at her then. "You didn't."
She exhaled through her nose, neither confirming nor denying it outright. "I tried. Didn't stick."
They walked in companionable silence for a few steps, their pace unconsciously slowing to accommodate Soren's careful stride. Neither of them remarked on it. It simply happened.
"How's your leg?" Nell asked after a moment, eyes flicking briefly downward before returning to his face.
"Sore," Soren answered honestly. "But stable."
"That's… good. I think." She paused. "Rysen said it'd be worse before it's better."
"He did," Soren confirmed.
Nell grimaced faintly. "He's always right about those things."
They passed beneath an overhead panel where the lighting shifted subtly, casting softer illumination across the corridor.
"Jennie's still in medical," Nell said quietly.
Soren's attention sharpened. "How is she?"
"Better," Nell replied. "At least, that's what Peony said this morning. Stable. Still under observation." Her fingers curled briefly at her side. "I keep thinking about yesterday. How fast it happened."
Soren nodded. "You acted quickly."
"I keep replaying it," she admitted. "Every little thing. Wondering if I missed something."
He considered his words carefully. "Sometimes there isn't anything to miss."
She gave a tired laugh at that. "I know. Doesn't stop the thinking."
They reached the entrance to the mess hall as she spoke. The doors slid open smoothly, releasing the familiar blend of warmth and scent within.
The mess was quieter than it had been earlier in the morning. The peak rush had passed, leaving behind scattered clusters of crew at tables, voices low and unhurried. The atmosphere felt gentler—less hurried, more subdued.
Soren's gaze was drawn immediately to the counter.
Three platters.
They sat side by side beneath the overhead lights, each bearing a different arrangement of food. The symmetry caught his attention, just as it had before, stirring a faint thread of curiosity he did not quite pursue.
"Looks like they're sticking with this," Nell remarked, following his gaze.
"Apparently," Soren said.
Darrick stood behind the counter today, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed as he wiped down the surface with a cloth. He glanced up as they approached.
"Mornin'," he greeted. "You're moving slow today, Soren."
Soren inclined his head. "Occupational hazard."
Darrick chuckled. "Fair enough. Take your time."
They moved along the counter together, selecting their food with quiet deliberation. Soren chose from the middle platter, noting again the subtle differences in texture and color. Nell took one of Soren's choice and opted for another one to the left of it without hesitation.
They carried their trays toward one of the larger tables positioned near the center of the mess. It was mostly empty, save for a couple of crew seated at opposite ends, absorbed in their own conversations.
They sat.
For a time, the only sound between them was the soft clink of utensils and the murmur of distant voices.
Soren took his first bite and paused.
The taste was… indeed different.
Not unpleasant. Just unfamiliar. A subtle shift he couldn't immediately place. He chewed thoughtfully, then glanced up at Nell.
"Does this taste different to you?" he asked casually.
She looked up, surprised. "Different?"
He shrugged slightly. "I can't quite say how."
Nell took another bite, chewing slowly before shaking her head. "Feels the same to me."
"Probably nothing, then," Soren said easily.
They continued eating, conversation drifting into lighter territory—small observations about the day ahead, idle remarks about crew rotations, Nell mentioning how the mess always felt calmer after the rush.
Then—
A sharp crash echoed through the room.
The sound cut cleanly through the ambient noise, drawing immediate attention. Heads turned in unison toward the source near the kitchen entrance.
A crate lay overturned on the floor, its contents scattered. A crew member stood frozen beside it, face flushed with shock.
Darrick was already moving. "Careful there!"
Nell was on her feet in an instant. "I'll help."
Others joined her, kneeling to gather the fallen supplies. Soren remained seated, one hand braced lightly against the table as he shifted to get a better view. His ankle twinged at the thought of standing too quickly, and he stayed put.
Within minutes, the mess had resumed its rhythm.
Nell returned to the table shortly after, brushing her hands together. Her expression, however, had changed. There was a distraction there now, something preoccupying her thoughts.
She finished the remainder of her meal quickly, movements efficient.
"I should go," she said, standing.
As she did, she faltered.
Just slightly.
Her weight shifted, then retracted, her foot drawing back as she steadied herself. She glanced at Soren, hesitation flickering across her face.
"Actually…" She paused, then met his eyes. "Do you mind lending me a hand later? Sortation."
Soren nodded without hesitation. "Of course."
Relief softened her features. "Thank you." She smiled faintly. "Meet me at the supply storage this afternoon?"
"I will."
She hesitated a moment longer, then turned and left, her steps brisk as she disappeared into the corridor beyond.
Soren remained seated for a moment after she'd gone, finishing his meal at a slower pace.
The mess hummed quietly around him.
_________________________
Soren left the mess at an unhurried pace.
The corridors beyond were calmer now, the post-breakfast lull settling into the ship like a held breath finally released. Foot traffic thinned as he moved upward, boots meeting the deck with a measured rhythm that accommodated his ankle without calling attention to it. He had learned the balance—how to distribute weight without favoring one side too obviously, how to let the pain exist without letting it dictate.
The Aurelius carried on around him, steady and composed.
As he ascended toward the operations deck, the air subtly changed. Cooler. Cleaner. The circulation here felt more deliberate, as though the ship itself kept closer watch over this region. Sound sharpened too—less ambient noise, more defined layers. A console humming here. A distant voice there. The quiet competence of systems doing precisely what they were meant to do.
Soren passed through the threshold just as the meeting was concluding.
He did not intrude. He never did.
The command crew dispersed efficiently—Cassian already deep in conversation with Everett, Elion pausing briefly at a console to confirm a reading before moving on. Atticus remained at the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, posture unchanged.
Soren took his usual place at the periphery.
No one needed to acknowledge him for him to belong there.
"The windflow predictions are holding," Cassian was saying, tone clipped but controlled. "Variance increases this evening. Not extreme, but noticeable."
Everett nodded, slate tucked under his arm. "Historical alignment is within tolerance."
Elion added, "The shift will affect upper corridors first. Nothing we can't adjust for."
Atticus listened without interruption.
When the room fell quiet, he spoke. "We proceed as planned."
No elaboration. No embellishment.
The decision settled like a final stitch pulled tight.
The meeting dissolved shortly after. Crew filtered out in practiced silence, leaving behind only the hum of the Aurelius and the quiet glow of inactive displays.
Soren lingered.
Atticus noticed him almost immediately.
Their eyes met—just briefly.
No words passed between them, but something eased all the same. A mutual acknowledgment, understated and unremarkable to anyone else, but present nonetheless. Not intimacy. Not familiarity.
Alignment.
Soren inclined his head once, then turned and exited the operations deck.
The corridor outside was brighter, the ambient lighting adjusted to simulate late morning. He checked the time as he walked.
Still early.
Too early to return to his quarters. Too early to go below. The ship felt… open to him in this moment. As though it offered space rather than instruction.
He altered his path slightly.
The alcove near the upper-deck window panel came into view. It was positioned at a gentle bend in the corridor, the panel curved just enough to create a recess where sound softened and movement slowed. Soren approached it without hurry.
The sky beyond the glass was striking in its simplicity.
Blue.
Not the fragile blue of dawn, nor the darkening stretch of evening—but a clean, untroubled expanse scattered with soft white cloud formations. They drifted lazily, unbroken, their edges bright and well-defined. There was no sign of turbulence. No visible threat.
Too clean, a part of him noted.
He stood there for a moment, hands resting loosely at his sides, letting the sight settle.
The wind curled faintly around him.
Here, it was gentler than below. Less restless. It brushed against the corridor walls with a restrained consistency, as though it had found its place and intended to remain there—for now.
Soren lowered himself into the alcove with care, easing his weight back against the molded panel. The vibration of the ship carried cleanly through the structure, a steady transmission that felt almost reassuring in its regularity.
He reached for his ledger.
The familiar weight grounded him immediately. He opened it to the marked page, the leather creasing softly beneath his fingers.
The pen hovered for a moment before touching down.
|| Late morning observation: Windflow projections remain accurate. Increase wind flow anticipated by evening hours. No current instability detected.
He paused, listening—not just to the ship, but to himself.
The Aurelius hummed beneath him, unchanged. Composed. The sound was not loud here, but it was present in a way that felt intentional, as though the ship were holding itself in readiness.
He continued.
|| Operations deck assessment: Command alignment remains steady. No deviation from projected course. Crew confidence appears intact.
He hesitated, then added—
|| Personal note: Exterior conditions remain clear. Sky visibility unobstructed. No anomalies observed.
The words sat on the page, factual and restrained.
Soren leaned back slightly, letting his gaze drift upward again to the sky beyond the panel. The clouds shifted slowly, imperceptibly changing shape as the Aurelius cut its path through the air.
The wind stirred.
Not abruptly. Not forcefully.
Just enough to be noticed.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment—not to escape, not to retreat—but to register the sensation fully. The way the air moved. The way the ship responded. The way his own breathing aligned unconsciously with the rhythm beneath him.
_________________________
The ledger closed with a familiar, muted sound.
Soren rested his palm atop it for a moment longer than necessary, as though confirming its presence before returning it to the inner pocket of his coat. The alcove's panel was cool beneath his shoulder as he leaned back slightly, testing his balance before straightening. His ankle responded with a quiet, dull pressure—not sharp, not urgent, but persistent enough to remind him it was there.
He rose carefully.
The movement was slower now than it had been earlier in the day. Not hesitant, but deliberate. He waited until the subtle sway beneath his feet—transmitted through the ship's structure—felt predictable again. The Aurelius carried its weight evenly, the hum beneath the deck low and continuous, threading through the soles of his boots as if marking time.
Satisfied, Soren turned and began his descent toward the lower deck.
The stairwell curved inward, narrowing slightly as it spiraled down. Light shifted with each level—cooler tones giving way to warmer, more utilitarian illumination. The air thickened almost imperceptibly, carrying with it the layered scents of work: metal, preserved foodstock, the faint trace of oil and fabric.
By the time he reached the lower deck, his heart had quickened.
Not dramatically. Just enough to notice.
He slowed further, conscious now of how carefully he placed each step. His ankle no longer protested sharply; instead, the ache had softened into something heavier, a spreading tightness that dulled sensation rather than heightened it. Not pain exactly. Something closer to fatigue settling in where strain had been.
The lower deck felt different today.
Not louder—if anything, quieter.
Crew moved through the corridors with their usual efficiency, carts gliding along tracks, footsteps measured and purposeful. But the space itself felt… compact. As though the air had drawn closer to the walls, the ceiling pressing down by a fraction too small to measure.
The wind was still present.
But here, it did not roam.
It breathed shallowly, contained within the structure, slipping along seams and ventilation paths rather than coursing freely. Earlier in the week, Soren had noted how the lower deck carried sound—how airflow amplified even small disturbances. Today, it did not.
The movement felt restrained. Functional.
The word surfaced unbidden, lingering at the edge of his thoughts.
Functional.
He continued forward, eyes tracking familiar junctions, storage markers, the subtle differences in panel wear that told him exactly how often each corridor was used. His pace remained even, though slower than usual. He adjusted his gait without thinking, shifting weight carefully to avoid aggravating the ache spreading up his calf.
The supply storage doors stood open ahead.
Crates were already stacked in neat rows along the interior, some opened, others sealed and marked with updated tags. Data slates rested atop temporary workstations, their displays glowing softly as crew members moved between stacks, checking counts, confirming seals, cross-referencing inventory.
The space smelled faintly of dried grain and treated fabric.
"Soren!"
Nell's voice cut through the ambient noise, sharp enough to pull him cleanly out of his thoughts.
He turned toward her.
She stood near one of the central aisles, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back more tightly than usual. A slate was tucked under one arm, the other hand gesturing briefly toward an open crate before she noticed his approach fully and straightened.
"Sorry," she said quickly, waving a hand. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"It's alright," Soren replied. "I was just… distracted."
She studied him for a moment, gaze flicking instinctively to his leg before returning to his face. "You made it down here fine?"
"Yes," he said. "Slowly."
"That's probably for the best," Nell said, then shook her head lightly. "We've got enough clumsiness going around today."
She stepped aside, motioning him further into the storage bay. "So—thank you for coming. I know this isn't exactly light work."
Soren glanced at the crates. "You mentioned sortation."
"And verification," Nell added. "Mostly verification. A few people noticed discrepancies between the logged counts and what's actually here. Nothing major. Probably just recording errors from the last restock."
"Probably," Soren echoed, noncommittal.
They moved together down one of the aisles, Nell adjusting her pace instinctively to match his. He noticed it—not because it was obvious, but because it was careful. Considerate in the quiet way that did not draw attention to itself.
She stopped beside a waist-high stack of sealed containers and set her slate down. "We're splitting it by category. Preserved foodstocks here, textiles there, medical overflow further down. You don't have to lift anything heavy—just check labels against the slate and flag anything that doesn't match."
"That's manageable," Soren said.
"Good," Nell replied, relief softening her shoulders. "Because if you try to carry something, I will absolutely stop you."
He inclined his head slightly. "I expected as much."
That earned him a faint smile.
They worked in companionable silence at first.
Soren focused on the task: reading labels, confirming serial markings, cross-checking quantities. The repetition was grounding. Each completed entry carried a sense of order, a reassurance that at least some things aligned as they should.
Still, he noticed patterns.
Not inconsistencies exactly—but small variations. A crate logged as full but missing a single sealed packet. Another containing an extra unit, carefully wedged into place. Nothing alarming. Nothing that could not be explained by human error.
But enough to require correction.
Nell moved efficiently beside him, occasionally pausing to update her slate, occasionally directing another crew member to adjust a stack or re-tag a container. She seemed more alert here than she had earlier in the mess—focused, purposeful—but the exhaustion still lingered beneath the surface, evident in the way she occasionally pressed her lips together or blinked a little too slowly.
After some time, she exhaled sharply and leaned back against a crate. "I can't wait for this to be done."
Soren glanced over. "You've been at it a while?"
"Since early," she said. "And I'm still technically supposed to be on lighter duty." She huffed quietly. "Apparently 'lighter' means 'everything that doesn't involve lifting with both arms.'"
"That seems… flexible," he said.
She laughed softly. "Very."
They continued working.
The hours passed without clear demarcation, measured instead by the gradual shift in ambient noise—the distant change in engine rhythm as time edged closer to evening, the subtle increase in foot traffic as other crews rotated through shifts.
By the time the remaining crates had dwindled to a manageable few, Soren's ankle had begun to numb.
Not in the alarming way that preceded injury—but in the dull, insistent way that signaled he had pushed it long enough. He shifted his weight experimentally, noting the tightness wrapping his joint, the way sensation felt slightly muted beneath the compression dressing.
Nell noticed immediately.
"That's it," she said, setting her slate down decisively. "You're done."
"I can finish this row," Soren replied, gesturing toward the remaining crates.
"No," she said, firmer now. "We can handle it. You've already helped more than enough."
He hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
"Go rest," she added, softer. "Before it decides to get worse on you."
She offered him a grateful smile, one that carried genuine warmth beneath the fatigue. "Thank you. Really."
"You're welcome," Soren said.
They parted near the corridor junction, Nell already turning back toward the remaining work as Soren began his careful ascent. His pace was slower now, every step deliberate, measured to maintain balance without favoring his injured leg too overtly.
He focused on the rhythm of movement. On the structure beneath his feet. On the steady, familiar hum of the Aurelius carrying him upward.
Halfway up the stairwell, his concentration wavered for just a fraction of a second.
His foot landed at a slightly different angle than intended.
The world tipped—briefly, sharply—and his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He reached instinctively for the rail, but his balance had already shifted too far.
A hand closed around his arm.
Firm. Steady.
The motion stopped his fall before it fully began, guiding him back into alignment with controlled precision. Fingers settled just below his elbow, supportive without gripping too tightly.
Soren inhaled sharply, then steadied.
Behind him, Rysen stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of his presence, his posture angled protectively as if he had anticipated the misstep before it occurred.
Rysen's hand remained where it was.
Holding him upright.
_________________________