The morning fog was slow to lift.
It clung to the harbor in thick folds, softening the angled geometry of cranes and cargo piles, blurring lantern lights into dull golden halos. Footsteps echoed against the docks—boots on metal, boots on wood, boots splashing through shallow puddles left from last night's rain.
Soren Eryndor paused at the base of the gangway leading up to the skyship.
Even half-shrouded in mist, the Aurelius was unmistakable: an expedition-class vessel with a reinforced brass hull, broad stabilizing wings folded close to its flanks, and an aether engine whose deep steady hum vibrated faintly through the air.
It wasn't a beautiful ship.
But it was impressive.
Soren lifted a hand to wipe condensation off his glasses and tightened his grip on the strap of his satchel. Inside rested his assignment: a new, unused memoir provided by the Ministry of Records. Bound in dark leather. Edges gold-gilded. Smooth, crisp pages.
He hadn't written anything yet.
That was reserved for when the journey truly began.
He inhaled, slow and deliberate, the scent of the harbor layer by layer—salted mist, metallic tang, burning aether, steam-warmed air.
Then he took his first step up the ramp.
The gangway creaked gently, responding to both his weight and the slow shift of the ship in its mooring. His boots left small, damp prints on the metal boards as he began his ascent.
Halfway up, the fog thinned.
A figure emerged at the top.
Tall. Upright. Still.
As Soren climbed closer, features clarified: a well-fitted captain's coat lined with a muted red, polished brass insignias that marked authority, dark hair pulled neatly back, expression composed.
Captain Atticus Riven.
His posture was crisp and formal, not unfriendly—but not particularly welcoming, either. The composure of a man who understood discipline and expected others to follow it.
Soren reached the final step and nodded politely.
"Captain Riven."
"Memoirist Eryndor," Atticus returned with a neutral tone. "You're early."
"I wasn't sure how long boarding would take," Soren replied. "I thought it best not to risk arriving late."
Atticus gave a faint acknowledgement—more a shift of breath than a nod.
"The crew is still preparing," he said. "Proceed down the main corridor to the common deck. You'll be briefed there."
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus stepped aside, allowing passage without comment.
Soren walked past him and entered the ship.
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The interior was warmer than the harbor air, filled with the subtle hum of circulating aether and the faint scent of heated brass. Lamps glowed along the walls, casting soft amber light down narrow hallways lined with exposed pipes and neatly labeled conduit channels. The floors vibrated just enough to remind every passenger of the engine breathing beneath their feet.
Despite the unfamiliar setting, Soren felt himself relaxing.
Ships—large or small—always had a rhythm.
Once you listened long enough, you could tell how healthy the vessel was.
The Aurelius sounded steady.
He followed the directional markings, eventually reaching the main deck—a wider room with bolted tables, overhead lanterns, and a panoramic window currently blurred by morning fog.
Several crew members were present, scattered around the space as they completed their own preparations.
They looked up when he entered.
Brief glances.
Quick assessments.
Nothing hostile, nothing warm—simply curiosity.
Soren offered a small polite nod and took a seat near the wall, placing his satchel on the table. He opened the clasp and gently pulled out the memoir.
The leather felt cool under his fingertips.
He opened to the first page.
Still blank.
He drew his pen and wrote the header in steady, even strokes:
Memoir of the Aurelius Expedition
A simple beginning.
He hesitated a moment, waiting for the ink to dry. No unusual feeling. No shiver. No odd sensation. The text sat cleanly on the paper.
Normal.
Soren exhaled and added a second line:
Day 1 — Departure.
He read it once, nodded to himself, and closed the book. He didn't feel the need to write more yet. The details of departure—weather, time, harbor conditions—could wait until after the ship had fully launched and he had observed more.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You must be the memoirist?"
Soren looked up.
A young man with warm brown eyes stood before him, holding a cup of steaming tea. His smile was genuine, a little shy, hands steady.
"Nell Ashford," he introduced. "Quartermaster-in-training."
Soren smiled back. "Soren. Thank you—this is kind."
Nell's smile widened. "We usually don't get assigned a memoirist. I thought it'd be nice to welcome you."
From across the room, a mechanic with broad shoulders and a perpetual scowl—Bram Cutter—grunted, "Don't spoil him. Scholars faint the moment something rattles."
Tamsin Crowe, checking inventory sheets, said without looking up, "Ignore Bram. He thinks everyone's softer than he is."
"I'm right," Bram muttered.
Nell whispered conspiratorially, "He's actually nice once you get to know him."
"I heard that," Bram barked.
Soren laughed softly and took a sip of tea. Warm, lightly floral, slightly spiced. Simple but comforting.
He was about to thank Nell again when the mood in the room shifted subtly.
A quiet hush.
A small change in posture.
A sense of attention reorienting toward the doorway.
Soren turned.
Atticus stood there.
He wasn't looking at Soren specifically—his gaze swept the room in a controlled, efficient survey, checking crew readiness. His posture remained neutral; there was no trace of personal interest, no overly sharp reaction.
Just a captain doing his duty.
"All crew," Atticus called evenly, "prepare for departure. Secure all equipment."
The space became a flurry of movement.
Chairs scraped.
Crates were latched.
Tools were gathered.
Nell rushed to stow the remaining supplies.
Tamsin called out inventory numbers.
Bram tightened straps with quick, practiced motions.
Soren rose from his seat, holding his memoir close as he moved to the side to avoid obstructing anyone. The deck trembled faintly as the engines shifted into a higher gear.
Atticus walked past, giving notes with clipped efficiency.
When he neared Soren, he paused—only briefly, barely a moment.
"During ascent," Atticus said, tone steady, "brace yourself. Expedition-class vessels climb faster than standard transports."
Soren nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."
Atticus gave a short nod in return—polite, detached—and continued on.
The horn blared overhead.
A deep, resonant note.
The deck shifted.
Soren gripped the railing instinctively as the Aurelius began rising. Slow at first, then with increasing confidence as the engine core stabilized its lift. The harbor receded beneath them, growing small and indistinct under the mist.
His stomach fluttered with the sudden movement.
Natural. Expected.
He inhaled and steadied himself.
Crew members moved around him, adjusting straps and securing final locks.
Atticus stood near the helm, posture unwavering, attention fixed on the ascent path. His gaze swept the room once, briefly checking that every crew member was secure.
His eyes passed over Soren without pause, without reaction.
Soren simply braced himself better.
The fog thinned.
Light poured through the panoramic window as they ascended into clear air.
The sky opened before them—vast, pale, waiting.
Soren looked down at his satchel.
Inside, the memoir rested untouched, still blank beyond the two simple lines he had written. Normal. Ordinary. Exactly what a recordbook should be on the first morning of a long journey.
He exhaled quietly.
A new chapter of his life had begun—simple, steady, unremarkable for now.
The Aurelius leveled out, engines humming with confidence as the ship turned toward the distant horizon.
And Soren Eryndor began his expedition with a calm mind and an empty recordbook.
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