Soren woke to a soft, even glow.
The cabin lamps had brightened gradually, shifting from blue to a muted gold that mimicked early sunlight. It was still quiet—too early for the surge of footsteps or clatter from the mess hall—but the ship itself was already awake. The hum of the engine resonated through the floor in a steady pulse, familiar enough now that it no longer unsettled him.
He sat up and took a moment to breathe.
The air smelled faintly of metal and the lingering trace of whatever tea Nell had left steeping in the corridor last night. That, strangely, was comforting. It meant that life on the Aurelius had its own rhythm, and he was beginning to recognize parts of it.
Everett's bunk was empty again. His jacket hung neatly from the peg as always. Soren had learned by now that the archivist liked starting his day early, usually before the first bell. Some people seemed to thrive in motion; Everett was one of them.
Soren washed, dressed, and checked the contents of his satchel—memoir, ink, spare quill, a folded cloth in case of spills. Everything was where it should be.
He fastened the clasp and stepped into the corridor.
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The hallway was subdued compared to the bustle he'd seen yesterday. A few crew members moved purposefully, exchanging low greetings. Someone down the hall was stretching, arms reaching toward the ceiling. Someone else stood outside their cabin tying their boots.
Soren walked slowly, letting his feet adjust to the subtle sway of the ship. It wasn't as noticeable now. He could feel the shift—yes—but it no longer tugged at his balance the way it had the day before. His body was learning.
As he rounded a corner, he nearly bumped into Liora.
She caught herself easily, one hand braced against the wall. Her goggles hung around her neck, and there was already a faint smear of dark grease across her cheek.
"Oh—good morning," Soren said.
Liora blinked once, then tucked a small wrench into her belt. "Morning. Sorry, I didn't see you."
"No, that was my fault," Soren said. "Are you already working?"
"Engines don't care what time it is," Liora replied, voice soft but steady. "Night shifts bring their own problems. I like checking everything myself after turnover."
"That seems… thorough."
She gave a small shrug, neither modest nor boastful. "If I understand her condition early, the day goes more smoothly."
"Her?" Soren echoed.
"The ship," Liora said simply. "She's old. Older than most of us. You don't rush her."
Soren nodded. He had heard several variations of that sentiment from the engineering crew already.
"I should go," Liora said, adjusting her goggles. "Breakfast will get crowded soon."
"Right," Soren said.
She moved past him, boots tapping softly down the corridor.
Soren continued toward the deck.
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When he stepped onto the main deck, he paused.
The space felt different in morning light. The huge windows along the front wall glowed with a pale gold warmth, filling the deck with a soft, almost gentle brightness. Shadows stretched long across the floor, the metal catching the light in muted silver reflections.
The energy here wasn't frantic. It wasn't even brisk yet. It was focused, like everyone was easing into their duties with practiced calm.
Tamsin Crowe stood near the storage manifests, flipping pages with quick, efficient movements. Her hair was pulled back more tightly than yesterday, and she tapped a pencil against the table with small, rhythmic clicks.
Bram Cutter leaned over an open floor panel, flashlight in his mouth as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt. He grunted in frustration, paused, adjusted his grip, and tried again.
Nell crossed the deck carrying a tray of small glass vials, each one filled with different colored powders and herbs. He moved with surprising balance for someone who never seemed to stop talking or rushing.
Elion stood at her navigation table, tracing thin lines across a fresh chart with slow, intent movements. The light caught on the metal tip of her ruler.
And near the center console, Everett was already writing—head down, posture perfectly straight, pen moving with steady confidence. His handwriting looked identical to what Soren had seen yesterday, each line measured like it had been pressed into the page with purpose.
Soren took a breath and stepped forward.
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Nell spotted him first.
"Soren!" Nell hurried over, managing to keep all the vials steady despite moving far too fast. "You're up early today."
"It seemed like a good time to look around again," Soren said.
"Good instinct," Nell said, lowering the tray to the central table. "Before the real chaos starts."
"Real chaos?" Soren echoed.
"Inventory rotation," Nell said with a grimace. "Tamsin's favorite day. Everyone else's… less favorite day."
Across the table, Tamsin didn't look up. "If you two are done talking, crate 9-D needs relabeling."
Nell made a face, then looked at Soren as though reminding himself not to complain in front of someone new.
"You don't have to help," Nell said quickly. "But if you want to, I won't say no."
"I can help," Soren replied.
He didn't mind. And it made sense—understanding the storage system would help him grasp the ship's structure.
Nell handed him a stack of blank labels. "Just copy what I write and stick them where I point."
Soren nodded and followed him toward the aisles.
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The storage deck looked different in daylight.
Sunlight filtered in through the narrow portholes, catching dust in slow-drifting beams. The chalk markings on the floor glowed faintly in the brightness, revealing patterns he hadn't recognized yesterday—small arrows, numbers, circles marking categories.
Nell led him to a stack of crates.
"Okay," Nell said, flipping open his notebook. "These five are getting shifted to the forward section after midday. We need to relabel them now so the afternoon crew doesn't panic."
Soren uncapped his pen. "What do I write?"
"This," Nell said, showing him a small block of text in neat handwriting. "Just copy that exactly."
Soren began writing.
The letters flowed cleanly—he'd trained his hand to stay steady even on moving surfaces. Nell watched him for a moment.
"That's neat," he said. "Everett will be jealous."
Soren didn't look up. "I doubt that."
Nell grinned. "Maybe just a little."
They worked efficiently, moving through the stack of crates. Nell explained the numbering system as they went: the first number for deck, the second for section, the letter for category, the final digits for sequence.
"Most people mess up the sequence part," Nell said. "But you'll be fine. You're used to cataloging things."
"It's not entirely different," Soren said. "Just louder."
Nell laughed. "Yeah. The archive probably didn't rattle like this every time the wind shifted."
"No," Soren agreed. "It was… still."
"Must've been nice," Nell said. "Quiet."
"Mostly."
Nell raised an eyebrow. "Mostly?"
"There were days when stillness felt too large," Soren said, choosing the words carefully. "But it was familiar."
"Familiar helps," Nell said. "You'll get that here too. Just give it time."
Soren nodded.
___________________________________________________________________________
By the time they finished with the crate labels, the morning bustle had picked up.
Voices echoed through the deck. Footsteps moved in quick, overlapping patterns. Someone wheeled a cart piled with tools across the floor. Someone else carried a bundle of thick rope over their shoulder.
Atticus appeared from one of the upper walkways, descending the narrow stairs with the same steady, measured steps Soren was beginning to recognize. Marcell followed behind him, checking something on a clipboard.
Both men crossed the deck toward the helm. A few crew members paused to greet them with brief nods. Atticus acknowledged each one without breaking stride.
Soren stepped aside to make room for them to pass.
As Atticus walked by, he glanced in Soren's direction—a brief, precise acknowledgment. Nothing more than recognition, but it grounded the moment.
"Morning," Marcell said as they passed.
Soren inclined his head. "Good morning."
The two officers continued toward the helm, their conversation low enough that Soren couldn't make out the words.
He didn't mind. They had their responsibilities; he had his.
The ship hummed beneath his feet, steady as ever.
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Soren took a moment to breathe, then returned to the central table. He set down his satchel and opened the memoir.
Yesterday's pages were dry, the ink settled into the grain of the paper. Today's page was blank, waiting.
He wrote:
|| Day Two — Morning.
|| Crew engaged in standard rotation tasks. Storage relabeled under Tamsin's || direction. Engine room stability confirmed by Liora Wynn. Overall atmosphere || consistent with previous day: focused, orderly.
He paused.
Then added:
|| Personal note: beginning to understand internal layout; movement becoming || easier.
He let the ink dry before closing the book.
The deck continued its steady rhythm around him—voices rising, then fading; metal clinking softly; the engine humming like a distant drum.
The Aurelius was settling into its day.
So was he.
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Soren lingered at the central table for a few moments after closing the memoir, feeling the subtle hum of the Aurelius through the soles of his boots. It was strange how quickly that vibration had gone from unfamiliar to… dependable. Like a quiet reminder that the ship was doing what it was meant to do.
Something clattered sharply on the far side of the deck.
"Bram!" Tamsin barked.
"It slipped!" Bram shouted back, though his tone made it sound more like an accusation against the crate than an apology.
"It slipped because you balanced it on a wrench!"
"You put the wrench there!"
"It was clearly marked!"
"No, it wasn't—"
Soren found himself staring for a moment before lowering his gaze again. The exchange wasn't hostile, he realized. It was more like… a well-rehearsed argument. Both of them were used to this rhythm, just like they were used to the ship's.
Footsteps approached from behind him.
"Scribe."
Soren turned.
Cassian Wolfe stood a short distance away, posture straight, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence was quieter than Atticus's but no less commanding—the kind of calm that came from long habit, not force.
"Good morning," Soren said.
Cassian inclined his head. "Morning."
He stepped closer, but not so near as to crowd him.
"The captain mentioned you observed the route adjustment," Cassian said. "Any discomfort?"
"No, sir," Soren replied. "It felt controlled."
"It was," Cassian said. "The Aurelius is old, but she performs reliably when treated properly."
Soren nodded. "Liora said something similar."
"Liora knows her systems better than anyone," Cassian said. "If she says we're steady, we're steady."
He paused, studying Soren—not critically, just attentively.
"You're adjusting well," Cassian said. "Some take longer."
Soren wasn't sure how to respond. Praise wasn't something he was accustomed to. "I'm doing my best to keep up."
"That's sufficient," Cassian said. "No one expects you to learn the ship in a day. But if you need direction, ask. It's better than guessing."
"Yes, sir."
Cassian gave a short nod of acknowledgment, then turned and crossed the deck toward the helm.
Soren exhaled quietly.
He appreciated the clarity. Cassian didn't waste words; he didn't soften them either. But the guidance was straightforward, and Soren found himself grateful for that.
___________________________________________________________________________
He was about to return to his cabin when Nell appeared again—this time holding a basket filled with small packets wrapped in waxed cloth.
"Soren!" Nell called. "Do you like sweet things?"
Soren blinked. "Sometimes."
"Perfect. These just came up from the galley." Nell held up the basket like it was a trophy. "Trial batch. Supposed to be a sort of… honey oat biscuit? Or something? They're still warm."
"You're testing them?" Soren guessed.
"Obviously," Nell said, already unwrapping one. "But I can't eat all of them. That would be irresponsible."
"Very," Soren said.
Nell grinned and held the basket out.
Soren took one of the small biscuits. It was warm, slightly dense, and smelled faintly of toasted grain and honey. When he bit into it, the center was soft and just a little sticky, with a gentle sweetness that spread slowly across his tongue.
"It's good," he said.
"Right?" Nell said proudly. "Liora says she's trying to recreate something she had once on a stopover. She won't say where, though."
"She didn't mention it to me," Soren said.
"She won't," Nell replied. "She doesn't like talking about herself. Unless it's engines. Or maps. Or the wind. Or gears. Or—"
"Nell!"
Tamsin's voice cut through the air like a blade.
Nell winced. "I swear she has a sixth sense that activates whenever I'm doing something fun."
Tamsin strode toward them, clipboard in hand, eyebrows drawn sharply downward.
"Why are you wandering around with a basket?" she demanded.
"I'm distributing morale," Nell said.
Tamsin stared at him.
Nell held up a biscuit like it was evidence. "Ship-approved morale."
Tamsin snatched one, inspected it, then took a small bite.
"It's acceptable," she said.
"That's practically high praise," Nell whispered to Soren as she walked away.
Soren hid a tiny smile.
___________________________________________________________________________
The rest of the morning passed in small but steady tasks.
Liora returned to her engine panel, adjusting one of the intake valves and marking down the new pressure readings.
Bram resurfaced from his repairs, wiping his hands and muttering about bolts that were "in league with gravity."
Tamsin continued her meticulous inventory work, occasionally calling out numbers that someone—usually Nell—jotted down on the rotating task board.
Everett moved across the deck like a quiet metronome, collecting reports, reviewing data, updating logs.
Soren spent some time following the layout of the deck, tracing how the different work areas linked together. He took quiet mental notes:
— the central console was always the busiest point
— the navigation table had a rhythm of its own
— the storage lifts were louder than the stairwells
— the engine hum deepened slightly every time Liora adjusted something
He didn't write any of that in the memoir—not yet. He just carried it with him.
___________________________________________________________________________
Near the end of the morning cycle, Soren slipped back into the observation walkway.
The light had shifted again, becoming brighter and clearer. The clouds below had thinned, revealing occasional glimpses of land far beneath—patches of green, a thin line of distant mountain peaks.
He leaned on the window frame, watching the world pass slowly far below them.
The air in the corridor felt cool and still.
He didn't hear footsteps this time, but a soft voice spoke behind him.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Elion stood at the far end of the walkway, a rolled chart tucked under one arm and a pencil in the other. Her hair was slightly mussed from leaning over her work.
"I'm not in the way, am I?" Soren asked.
"No," she said, stepping closer. "This place is for everyone. People just forget it exists."
"It's quiet," Soren said.
"That's why I like it," Elion replied. She moved beside him, leaving enough space but sharing the view. "Sometimes I think the sky is easier to read when everything else is quiet."
"You can read the sky?" Soren asked.
Elion gave a small shrug. "Only patterns. Winds, mostly. Currents, cloud shapes. You get used to it."
Soren nodded. "Nell said something similar."
"Nell says a lot of things," Elion murmured.
"He does," Soren agreed.
Elion laughed softly. "He means well. He just doesn't realize that not everyone wants to hear about every new spice he finds."
Soren looked out the window again. "I don't mind."
"That's good," Elion said. "He needs people like that."
They stood in a comfortable silence for a minute, the engine hum vibrating faintly beneath them.
Then Elion checked her wristband and sighed. "I should get back. The next set of projections needs updating."
"Good luck," Soren said.
She offered a small smile before turning back toward the deck.
Soren remained a little longer, watching the stretch of sky ahead of them.
Then he turned and made his way back toward his cabin.
___________________________________________________________________________
The corridor had grown livelier by the time he reached it. The bells marking midday break were close—he could hear the faint shift in movement as people prepared for lunch.
Soren stepped inside his cabin, set down his satchel, and exhaled.
The morning had passed without incident.
Not particularly exciting.
Not particularly slow.
Just… steady.
He sat for a moment on his bunk, listening to the engine's hum fill the space.
The Aurelius continued its steady course into the open sky.
And Soren—quietly, gradually—continued finding his place within it.
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