Morning broke with a pale wash of color across the Aurelius's observation windows, soft gold bleeding into muted violet. The airship moved steadily, its engines purring through the hull like a beast in a calm sleep. Soren paused along the upper walkway, taking in the empty expanse of sky stretching in all directions—quiet and seemingly endless.
He opened his ledger and scribbled a note for the morning entry.
|| Day 4. Skies clear. No anomalies. Atmosphere stable. Crew functioning under established routine.
Internal rhythm of the ship remains consistent.
He lifted his pen after writing the last line. "Internal rhythm" wasn't terminology Everett had taught him—just something that felt natural, a phrase that made sense inside his mind as he listened to the mechanical heartbeat of the vessel. He didn't dwell on it long. Instead, he stepped down to the main deck where the crew was beginning their day's shift.
Elion Penn stood over a large navigation map, her brows gently furrowed as she noted the projected wind changes. Everett was beside her, cross-referencing archival reports from previous flights. They moved like two parts of the same mechanism—her charting, him calculating, both adjusting quietly based on each other.
Soren paused a moment, watching the effortless synchronization between them. It made the air feel warmer somehow.
Elion noticed him first. "Morning, Soren."
He nodded. "Morning. Anything I need to note?"
"Wind shear in the lower band," she said, tapping the chart. "Minor. Won't affect us, but worth recording."
Everett glanced up. "I'll give you a summary once we finalize the numbers."
"I can wait," Soren said.
"No need. I'll bring it to you," Everett replied, already returning to his figures.
Soren smiled faintly, then stepped aside. He admired how they worked—confident, steady, grounded. It made him feel like his role had a proper place within the structure of the ship.
As he moved toward the eastern corridor, Rysen passed by him, cradling a medical kit under one arm.
"Good morning," the medic greeted, voice warm as ever.
"Morning," Soren echoed. "Routine check?"
"Mostly." Rysen shifted the kit slightly. "Couple of crew reported headaches last night. Likely fatigue. I'll log the results once I'm done."
Soren nodded. "If you need someone to help with writing reports—"
"I'll trouble you when the stack gets unbearable." Rysen's smile had a quiet humor to it. "But not yet. You're still settling in."
Soren dipped his head, both acknowledging and appreciating the gentleness in the remark. "Alright."
Rysen passed by, his footsteps fading into the hum of the hall.
Soren continued down the corridor, opening his ledger again to record the brief exchange—crew status, possible fatigue, routine checks. Nothing unusual.
But as he flipped the page, his pen hovered over a line he didn't recall writing.
'Crew stable. Subdued mood.'
He frowned. When had he written that? It was in his handwriting, neat and precise, but placed between two entries from the night before—entries he remembered clearly.
He reread the line once more.
It didn't feel wrong. Just… out of place.
Before he could think further, footsteps approached. Soren closed the ledger instinctively.
Marcell Dayne's voice came first. "Memoirist."
Vice-Captain Dayne wasn't unfriendly, but his tone often carried a clipped efficiency—as if every sentence needed to be measured before spoken.
Soren straightened. "Yes?"
"We're adjusting speed to accommodate the wind shear Penn projected. Captain wants all department heads updated. You fall under auxiliary logs, so I'm informing you." He paused, studying Soren as though checking how well he absorbed instructions. "Make sure your records reflect the shift."
"I will."
Marcell gave a short nod. "Good." He stepped around him, but stopped after a few paces. Without turning back, he added, "You're adapting well."
Soren blinked. "Thank you."
But Marcell had already moved on.
Soren stood still for a moment, letting the interaction settle in his mind. Approval from the vice-captain wasn't given lightly; he made a mental note of it, then walked toward the main deck again.
He reached the viewing platform—one of his favorite corners of the ship. From here, he could see the horizon in full sweep: a blend of pale blue and soft gold, clouds drifting lazily below like slow-moving rivers.
He opened his ledger once more. The strange line was still there.
Crew stable. Subdued mood.
Soren read it again. It wasn't wrong. Just oddly phrased—something he might write after observing tension or strain. But today had been routine so far. He flipped back to last night's notes. Everything was normal.
He wrote beneath it:
Entry uncertain. Possibly written earlier than remembered. Will review tonight.
As he finished the line, a faint shift passed through the deck—subtle enough that it could have been the ship changing altitude.
He didn't think much of it.
"Soren."
The voice was calm. Low. It stirred the air around him in a way he recognized instantly.
He turned. Atticus Riven stood several steps behind him, posture straight, expression unreadable as ever. Sunlight cast a thin gold rim along the edge of the captain's coat.
"Captain," Soren greeted.
Atticus approached, steps measured. "I received Dayne's note regarding your department. Are your records up to date?"
"Yes," Soren replied. "I'm keeping track of the wind adjustments."
Atticus nodded once. "Good."
He didn't leave. He simply stood beside Soren at the railing, gaze fixed on the sky ahead. The silence between them wasn't tense—just quiet, steady, the way the early morning often was.
After a moment, Atticus asked, "How are you adapting to the ship's rhythm?"
Soren looked at him. "Rhythm?"
"The motion. The sound. The pace of movement. Some find it unsettling at first."
"Oh." Soren considered. "It feels natural. Steady. Almost familiar."
Atticus's eyes shifted to him briefly—an unreadable flicker, neither surprise nor disapproval. Something softer. Acknowledging.
"Good," the captain said simply. "A crew member who aligns with the Aurelius adapts faster."
Another silence passed—comfortable, almost grounding.
Soren found himself speaking without planning. "I think… it's easier to work when everything feels ordered."
Atticus's attention turned forward again. "Order doesn't happen by itself."
His voice was calm, but there was a weight beneath it—something shaped by years of command.
Soren nodded. "I'll do my best to maintain it in the memoirs."
Atticus dipped his head slightly, the smallest gesture of approval. "See that you do."
And with that, he stepped back. "I'll review route updates with Penn. Continue your observations."
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus walked away, coat brushing lightly behind him as he moved down the deck.
Soren stayed where he was, pen in hand, the faint warmth of their conversation lingering longer than expected.
___________________________________________________________________________
After Atticus left, Soren remained at the railing a little longer, letting the breeze from the ventilation shafts brush against his face. The sky ahead was still clear. The Aurelius cut through it cleanly, leaving no visible trace behind.
He tucked the ledger back under his arm and descended the steps to the main deck.
The ship had fully woken by now.
Bram argued with a stubborn crate latch near the storage lifts, muttering threats under his breath. Liora inspected a pipe connection with a small wrench, tapping it once, then nodding in quiet satisfaction. Tamsin stood nearby, cross-referencing crate labels with her manifest, lips moving as she counted.
"Eryndor," Tamsin said as he passed.
He stopped. "Yes?"
"Did you log the drill results from yesterday?" she asked, eyes not leaving her sheet.
"Yes. Response time, route usage, noted the delay at the forward hatch."
"Good." She flipped to another page. "Next drill, you'll want to stand near the mid-corridor junction. Different vantage point. The traffic there's heavy when routes change."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said.
She hummed once—a sound that could have meant anything from approval to simple acknowledgment—and returned to her columns.
Soren moved on, heading toward the mess, where Nell was ferrying a tray of mugs between tables.
"Careful, that one's hot," Nell called, pointing to the cup closest to Soren's hand as he approached the counter.
Soren shifted his grip automatically. "Thank you."
"See?" Nell said, flashing a bright grin. "Already saving lives."
Soren looked down at the mug, steam curling faintly from the surface. "I didn't realize hot tea qualified as life-threatening."
"On a ship full of tired people? It definitely does," Nell replied. "One accidental spill, and I'll never hear the end of it."
Soren allowed a small smile. "How's everyone this morning?"
"Grumbling less," Nell said. "That's an improvement. Yesterday's drill shook a few of them awake." He glanced toward the doorway. "Heard anything interesting from the captain?"
"About the drill?" Soren asked.
"About anything," Nell said, leaning forward conspiratorially.
"Only that I should keep my records orderly," Soren answered honestly.
Nell laughed. "That sounds like him."
He handed Soren a small piece of bread on a cloth napkin. "Here. Eat that before you forget."
"I won't forget," Soren said.
"You say that now," Nell replied. "But I've seen people go an entire day on one cup of tea and a headache."
Soren accepted the bread. "Thank you."
"Anytime," Nell said, already turning to intercept another crew member reaching for a mug without looking.
Soren ate slowly, leaning in the doorway of the mess and watching the casual flow of people coming and going. Even their ordinary movements had a rhythm—like lines on a map that he was only beginning to read.
When he finished, he wiped his hands carefully and returned to the deck.
___________________________________________________________________________
The next hours settled into a calm, steady pattern.
Soren spent some time in the chart room, copying segments of older expedition records under Everett's direction. The archivist explained small differences in terminology between previous missions and their own, his voice level and precise.
"Language carries assumptions," Everett said as he pointed to a line describing "minor distortions" near the frontier in a decades-old report. "What one era calls minor may be notable to another. Don't inherit their judgments blindly. Note their wording, then describe what we observe in ours."
Soren nodded. "So we acknowledge theirs without adopting it."
"Exactly," Everett said. "You understand quickly."
There was something reassuring in Everett's calm commentary. It gave Soren a framework to work within—a way to think about the task beyond simple transcription.
Later, he joined Elion briefly near the navigation station as she redrew part of their current route.
"We'll be skirting the edge of an older survey line," she explained, pencil moving with measured strokes. "The scholar-general wants overlapping data. Less room for argument later."
"Is that common?" Soren asked. "Overlapping routes?"
"When people don't trust previous records?" Elion said. "Yes."
Her pencil paused for a heartbeat, then continued. "At least they gave us a decent ship this time."
Soren watched her hand move along the chart. "You were on the previous expedition?"
"No." Elion's tone didn't change, but there was the slightest tightening around her eyes. "But I knew someone who was."
She let the statement rest without elaborating.
Soren, remembering the balance he'd been learning to keep—between curiosity and respect—didn't press.
___________________________________________________________________________
It wasn't until late afternoon that something felt… different.
Soren was walking along the central corridor toward his cabin, ledger under his arm, when the lights flickered.
Only once.
A simple dimming, then return to full brightness. Barely noticeable.
He paused, glancing up.
The hum of the engines remained steady. No lurch of movement. No creak of strain in the hull.
He waited a moment longer, then continued on.
As he reached his cabin and set the ledger down on the small desk, he heard a faint knock.
"Come in," he called.
Rysen stepped through the doorway, a folded paper in hand. "I'm making my rounds. Wanted to drop this off."
Soren frowned lightly. "This?"
"Medical log summary," Rysen said, offering the page. "You don't need every detail, but the general pattern should be in your records. Headaches, minor fatigue, a few sleep disturbances. Nothing severe."
Soren took the page and skimmed it. "Thank you. I'll integrate it."
Rysen glanced around the small cabin. "You settling in well enough? Bunk comfortable? No dizziness? Nausea?"
"I'm fine," Soren said. "No issues so far."
"Good." Rysen's gaze softened slightly. "If that changes, tell me early. It's easier to address small problems than delayed ones."
"I will."
Rysen nodded once, satisfied. He turned to go, then paused at the door. "Did you notice the lights flicker just now?"
"Yes," Soren answered. "I thought maybe it was a minor adjustment."
"Could be." Rysen's tone was neutral, thoughtful. "If it repeats, mention it to Liora or Bram. They'll check the circuits."
"Alright," Soren said.
When Rysen left, Soren sat down, smoothing the medical log alongside his own notes.
He added a line:
|| Light flicker observed once in corridor. No additional disturbances.
He started to write the time, then hesitated.
For a moment, he couldn't remember if it had been just before Rysen knocked, or a little earlier when he'd first entered the corridor. The memory felt slightly blurred at the edges—as though it had shifted sideways.
He stared at the blank space where the time should go, then wrote simply: Late afternoon.
It wasn't precise, but it would do.
He closed the ledger, then reopened it to make sure the last line was still there.
It was.
___________________________________________________________________________
By evening, the sky outside had cooled to a deeper blue, streaked with thin strands of cloud. The deck lights brightened in response, casting a muted glow over metal and faces alike.
Soren stood near the observation windows again, watching the horizon darken. A few crew members lingered nearby, finishing tasks or briefly resting before the next shift.
Marcell spoke quietly with Cassian over a spread of reports. Everett and Elion shared a low conversation near the navigation console. Nell sat on a crate, turning a metal token between his fingers, lost in thought.
Atticus stood alone near the helm, hands clasped lightly behind his back as he surveyed the deck.
The ship felt… calm. Not empty. Just settled. As if everything had found its place for the moment.
Soren opened his ledger to begin the last entry of the day.
|| Day 4 — Evening.
Ship stable. Wind adjustment completed without incident. Crew at routine capacity. No major disturbances reported.
He hesitated, then added:
|| Minor light flicker in corridor, not repeated. Possibly electrical fluctuation.
He flipped back to the earlier page where the odd line—Crew stable. Subdued mood.—still sat. The handwriting looked like his, but the more he stared at it, the less he remembered the moment of writing.
He tapped the pen lightly against the margin.
"What are you thinking, Eryndor?"
The voice was quiet, close enough that he felt it before he fully registered it.
He turned.
Atticus had approached without sound, stopping a short distance away. His coat was fastened fully now, collar neat, dark hair smoothed back from his forehead. His expression remained composed, but his gaze carried its usual sharp clarity.
"I was reviewing today's entries," Soren said.
"Anything notable?" Atticus asked.
Soren considered his answer. "Nothing significant. Minor fatigue among some crew. A single light flicker in the corridor. Routine route adjustments."
"Good," Atticus said. "Nothing unusual, then."
Soren glanced at his ledger again, thumb resting briefly on the odd line. He could have mentioned it—could have said that one sentence felt out of place, that he didn't remember writing it.
But it seemed too small. Too subjective. A detail that might make sense later, or might never matter at all.
"No," he said finally. "Nothing unusual."
Atticus studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded once. "We'll be nearing the older survey line by tomorrow. The scholar-general will likely speak with you soon about cross-referencing. Be prepared for additional notes."
"I will," Soren said.
"Good." Atticus's gaze shifted toward the window. "Get some rest when your entry is complete. Routine is easier to maintain when you don't fight exhaustion."
"Yes, Captain."
Atticus moved away, returning his focus to the helm.
Soren watched him for a moment, then looked back to his open page.
He wrote:
|| Captain maintains stable command presence. Crew appears aligned with set order. Daily routine firmly established.
He paused, listening to the steady hum of the engines, the soft murmur of crew voices, the faint clink of distant tools.
The Aurelius felt balanced.
He closed the ledger.
For now, the day was done.
___________________________________________________________________________