Soren's eyes flicked open.
For a moment, he did not move.
Not because he was disoriented—quite the opposite. He knew exactly where he was. The narrow curve of the alcove seat pressed against his back, the smooth metal cool through the thin fabric of his shirt. One knee bent, the other extended slightly, his ankle resting at an angle that did not quite ache but threatened to if he shifted too quickly. His ledger lay closed against his thigh, weight familiar enough that he'd nearly forgotten it was there.
Upper deck.
The recognition settled first, then the details followed.
It was warmer here.
Not warm in any deliberate way—no artificial heat cycling higher than regulation—but insulated, sheltered from the harsher circulation that ruled the corridors below. The air rested instead of rushed. It lingered. Sound behaved differently too, less immediate, as if the ship itself took a moment longer to remember this level existed.
The hum of the Aurelius was present, unmistakable, but softened.
The hum felt heavier as it descends closer to the mechanical operations of the Aurelius. Low. A vibration that sat in the bones rather than the ears, constant and unavoidable. On the lower decks, the hum did not ask to be noticed—it imposed itself, loud in its steadiness, a reminder of mass and movement and machinery working without pause.
Here, on the upper deck, it arrived late.
Filtered.
As if the sound had to travel farther to reach this height, climbing through bulkheads and supports, losing sharpness along the way. The result was a muted resonance that threaded gently through the alcove instead of filling it. Present, but restrained.
Soren breathed in slowly.
The air carried no trace of oil or metal here, none of the sharper notes that clung to the lower levels. Instead, it smelled faintly of fabric and something neutral—clean, unremarkable, safe. He exhaled, shoulders easing a fraction as his awareness settled fully into his body.
He had not slept well.
The knowledge surfaced without judgment, just quiet acknowledgment. His rest had been shallow, fractured by long stretches of wakefulness where time blurred and thoughts circled without conclusion. Each time he'd drifted close to deeper sleep, the distant hum had followed him there—persistent, looping, as if echoing inside his skull rather than around it.
He had stopped trying after a while.
Instead, he'd come up here. The alcove was rarely occupied this early, tucked away just enough to feel private without being hidden. He remembered sitting down, shifting his weight carefully, intending only to close his eyes for a moment.
A brief rest.
That had turned into this.
Soren lifted his gaze toward the corridor clock mounted across from the alcove.
The display glowed softly against the dim metal of the wall, numbers steady and indifferent. He watched them for a long second, then another, letting the passage of time register without reacting to it.
Later than he would have liked.
Earlier than he felt ready for.
He looked away.
For a moment, he considered staying where he was. Letting the quiet stretch a little longer. Observing the way the upper deck held sound and warmth differently, the way the hum threaded through the space instead of dominating it. He could have written about that—the stratification of noise, the way altitude altered perception aboard the Aurelius.
The thought lingered.
Then faded.
Instead, his fingers brushed the edge of his ledger.
The leather cover was cool beneath his touch, familiar in a way that grounded him immediately. He adjusted it on his lap, thumb finding the corner with practiced ease, and opened it to a fresh page.
Blank.
He paused there, pen hovering.
He had thought to write later. After observing the ship for a little longer, after letting the sensations settle into something clearer. But the words pressed forward now, insistent in their quiet way, and he found that resisting them required more effort than yielding.
So he began.
The pen moved steadily across the page, ink flowing without hesitation as he recorded the details that had been circling his thoughts since the previous evening. The wind had felt colder—noticeably so, not in sudden gusts but in sustained presence. It had not diminished overnight as lighter currents sometimes did, nor shifted direction in the way he'd come to expect.
Consistent airflow.
From yesterday evening through the early hours, into what now passed for morning.
He wrote about the way it settled low, how it lingered at floor level before rising, how it carried sound differently along the mid-deck. He noted the absence of erratic fluctuation, the steadiness that suggested intention rather than chance.
Observation without conclusion.
Each line felt provisional, as it always did. He resisted the urge to extrapolate too far, to assign meaning where only pattern existed. Instead, he wrote as he always did—carefully, precisely, leaving room for correction.
When he reached the end of the page, he slowed.
Read over what he'd written once.
Soren closed the ledger.
The sound was soft, absorbed by the alcove, and he rested his hand atop the cover for a brief moment before letting it fall back to his side. He leaned into the seat, gaze drifting down the corridor ahead.
Footsteps approached.
Measured. Familiar.
He recognized the cadence before the figure came fully into view. Cassian emerged from around the corner, posture straight, expression neutral in the way that suggested focus rather than severity. His eyes flicked briefly toward the alcove as he passed.
Soren met his gaze and inclined his head in a small nod.
Cassian returned it without pause.
No words were exchanged.
Cassian continued down the corridor toward Atticus's office, stopping just long enough to raise a hand and knock. The sound echoed once, then twice, before the door slid open and he stepped inside, disappearing from view as it closed behind him.
Soren watched the door for a moment longer than necessary.
Then looked away.
The wind brushed faintly against his boots, lingering low along the deck plating. It was subtle here, barely noticeable unless one paid attention, but he felt it all the same—constant, patient, waiting.
He shifted forward and rose from the alcove.
The movement was careful, deliberate. He adjusted his weight slowly, testing his ankle before committing fully. There was resistance there—not sharp pain, but a reminder. A quiet warning that asked to be acknowledged.
Satisfied that it would hold, Soren gathered his ledger and took his first step toward the stairs.
As he moved, a soft pressure began to build behind his eyes.
Not sudden.
Not alarming.
A familiar presence that pulsed three times in steady succession before settling into a dull ache that threaded itself comfortably into the background of his awareness. He did not stop. Did not slow.
The hum grew heavier as he descended.
With each step downward, the sound thickened, grounding itself more firmly into the structure of the ship. By the time he reached the mid-deck landing, the upper deck's muted quiet had already begun to feel distant.
Soren placed his hand lightly on the rail and continued on.
Downward.
_________________________
Soren lingered on the mid-deck longer than he had intended.
Not because he had lost his sense of direction, but because the deck itself seemed to invite delay. The air moved differently here—less contained than the upper levels, less aggressive than the lower decks. The wind had room to stretch across the plating, spreading low and wide before lifting in shallow currents that brushed against his boots and calves as he walked.
He let it guide him.
Or rather, he let his feet decide where to go while his attention followed the wind's path. There was an ease to it, a quiet surrender that did not feel careless. The mid-deck corridors curved and branched with familiar geometry, routes he had traversed countless times without thought. Today, he took the inner path first, circling along the broader curve that hugged the ship's spine.
The hum here was balanced.
Present, but not overbearing.
It vibrated through the deck plating in a steady rhythm, a reminder of motion rather than labor. Soren felt it most clearly through the soles of his boots, the resonance traveling upward just enough to be noticed before fading again. The migraine behind his eyes pulsed faintly in response, but it remained contained—manageable.
He adjusted his pace instinctively.
Not faster.
Not slower.
Just… attentive.
After completing the inner loop, his steps carried him outward, toward the wider passage that skirted closer to the hull. Here, the wind pressed more firmly, its behavior less predictable. It curled around structural supports, slipped through seams where the plating met, and tugged faintly at loose fabric as if testing its presence.
Soren noted the difference without stopping.
Outer path. Increased variability. Stronger lateral flow.
The observations lined themselves neatly in his mind, ready for later transcription if needed.
He rounded the next curve and slowed.
Ahead, the corridor split.
One branch continued along the mid-deck's familiar routes—toward crew quarters, storage, and auxiliary stations. The other led to a section he had never crossed.
Above the sliding panel door, a single word was etched into the metal signage:
NORTH
The letters were clean, unadorned. No additional designation. No explanation.
Soren stopped.
Not abruptly. Just enough that the wind caught up to him, flowing past his boots before settling again. He stood there, gaze fixed on the door, mind tilting gently toward curiosity.
He could hear footsteps beyond it.
Measured. Purposeful. Passing without pause.
Not crew cadence.
Different.
The sound did not linger. It moved past and faded deeper into the section beyond, leaving only the hum behind. Soren felt the pull of it—the instinct to listen harder, to linger longer.
Curiosity, quiet but persistent.
He took a half-step closer.
Then—
"Soren!"
The voice snapped cleanly through the moment.
He blinked, awareness snapping back into place as he turned toward the sound. Carden approached from the adjacent corridor, his stride relaxed, posture easy in the way of someone entirely at home aboard the Aurelius. His expression held the faint trace of amusement even before he spoke again.
"Saw you standing there like you were about to knock," Carden added. "Thought I'd save you the trouble."
Soren exhaled softly, tension easing from his shoulders as he turned fully away from the door. "I wasn't going to knock."
"Mm," Carden hummed. "Sure you weren't."
Soren arched a brow. "You sound unconvinced."
Carden stopped beside him, glancing briefly toward the NORTH-marked door before returning his attention to Soren. "Curiosity kills the cat."
Soren nearly rolled his eyes. Instead, he smiled. "Good thing I'm not a cat."
Carden snorted quietly. "You resembled one just now."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You shouldn't," Carden said, but there was no bite to it. His tone shifted subtly then—still casual, but steadier. "On a more serious note… it'd be wise to steer clear of that section."
Soren glanced back at the door. "Is that so?"
"They're stricter than you think," Carden continued. "And they don't care much for explanations."
"They wouldn't see me through the door," Soren pointed out mildly.
Carden's lips pressed together in a thin smile. "They're well-trained. Empire soldiers."
Soren turned his head slightly. "Empire?"
"Mm." Carden nodded once. "Leadership transferred aboard recently. Louie Arkanac."
The name settled heavily between them.
"I've heard it mentioned," Soren said.
Carden's expression tightened just enough to be noticeable. "He's contributed a lot to the Empire. Loyal to the boot. Efficient."
"And?"
"And people say he's a little…" Carden tilted his head, searching for the word. "…psychotic."
Soren huffed a soft breath. "That's one way to describe it."
Carden gave him a light pat on the shoulder. "Just be careful. I'd hate for you to end up on someone's list."
"I heard," Soren replied evenly. "I'll be careful."
Satisfied, Carden's posture relaxed again. "Good."
They fell into step together, turning away from the NORTH section without further comment. As they walked, Carden matched Soren's pace naturally, shortening his stride without remark. The adjustment did not escape Soren's notice.
"Where to?" Carden asked.
"Lower deck," Soren replied. "I thought I'd take the long way."
"Figures," Carden said with a grin. "I'm headed down too. Night shift rotation."
"Already?" Soren asked.
"Unfortunately." Carden sighed theatrically. "Left a paper at the crew rest bay. Thought I'd fetch it before someone decides it's scrap."
They reached the stairs and began their descent.
The air changed almost immediately.
Cooler.
Sharper.
The hum deepened as they moved downward, its resonance thickening until it pressed more firmly against Soren's senses. The migraine stirred again, but he kept his expression neutral, focusing instead on the sensation in his ankle as he stepped carefully from one stair to the next.
"Leg still bothering you?" Carden asked, glancing down briefly.
"A little," Soren admitted. "It's manageable."
"Everything's manageable until it isn't," Carden replied. "You should let Rysen take another look."
"I will," Soren said, though not with much conviction.
The lower deck greeted them with a noticeable shift.
Colder than yesterday.
Significantly so.
The wind here was restless, erratic in a way Soren had not felt before. It did not settle low or move with consistency—it darted, shifted, rebounded off structural supports in unpredictable bursts. He felt it brush past his ankles, then sweep higher, only to vanish and return again seconds later.
He noted it automatically.
Lower deck airflow unstable. Increased variability. Temperature drop.
The hum was louder here too. Not sharper, but heavier—grounded. It pressed into the chest rather than the ears, a constant reminder of mass and movement below the surface of the ship.
At the junction leading toward the crew rest bay, Carden slowed.
"This is me," he said. "Shortcut."
Soren nodded with a playful note. "Don't forget it again."
"No promises."
Carden smiled and waved brief as he turned away, stride lengthening as he disappeared down the narrower corridor. Soren watched him go for a moment, then continued on alone, taking the longer route around the lower deck.
The wind followed him.
_________________________
Soren continued along the lower deck alone.
The route he chose was not the most efficient one. It curved wider, threading through service corridors and structural passages that rarely drew attention unless one worked within them. He preferred it this way. The longer path gave him time—time to move carefully, to listen, to let the ship speak without interruption.
His pace was slow but steady.
Each step was placed with intent. His ankle held, though the joint remained tight, resistant in a way that demanded acknowledgment rather than accommodation. The ache had settled deeper now—not sharp enough to halt him, but insistent enough to keep his awareness anchored to his body.
The lower deck felt different today.
Not just colder—though it was—but denser.
The hum here was louder than it had been the day before, its vibration more grounded, less diffused. It did not merely pass through the deck plating; it sat there, low and heavy, reverberating upward through bone and muscle alike. Soren felt it in his calves, in the soles of his feet, in the quiet pressure at the base of his spine.
The wind was worse.
Erratic.
It no longer followed predictable paths along the floor or walls. Instead, it shifted abruptly, curling around corners only to dissipate mid-corridor, reappearing seconds later from a different direction entirely. It brushed past him in uneven bursts, cold fingers slipping beneath fabric before retreating again.
He noted it without writing it down.
Not yet.
As he moved, familiar landmarks passed by—storage access panels, maintenance alcoves, sealed bulkhead doors marked with faded identifiers. He barely registered them consciously. His attention stayed with sensation, with rhythm.
Footstep. Hum. Wind. Breath.
Then he slowed.
Ahead, the aerostatic control passage opened into view.
The corridor narrowed here, its walls reinforced with thicker plating, the lighting dimmer by design. The door at the end of it stood exactly as it should: sealed, locking wheel turned fully into place, indicator lights steady and unbroken.
No warning signals.
No visible irregularities.
Soren stopped a few steps short of it.
He did not know why.
The sensation came first—a subtle pull, not physical but perceptual. The kind that caused attention to sharpen without conscious intent. He stood still, letting the ship's sounds wash over him as he assessed the space.
Everything was in order.
The door was secure. The controls inactive. The air pressure stable.
He noted these things quietly, filing them away with the same care he applied to his ledger entries. There was no evidence of disturbance. No rational cause for concern.
And yet—
Thump.
The sensation registered before the sound did.
A dull, hollow impact reverberated upward through the deck plating beneath his feet, brief but distinct. Not loud. Not violent. Just… present. As if something below had struck the ceiling of its space with measured force.
Soren froze.
Every muscle went still, breath halting mid-draw as his mind snapped fully into awareness. He did not move. Did not shift his weight. He let the moment stretch, listening not just with his ears but with his body.
The hum continued uninterrupted.
The wind paused, then resumed its erratic course.
Nothing else followed.
No second impact.
No alarm.
No change in pressure or sound.
His thoughts raced briefly—too briefly to take form—but he reined them in, forcing himself to assess rather than assume. Was it structural? A pressure adjustment? Something dislodged within the framework of the ship?
He waited.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
Still nothing.
Soren's gaze drifted downward, as if he could see through the deck itself, through layers of metal and machinery into whatever space lay beneath. The sensation lingered, unresolved, vibrating faintly at the edge of perception.
Was it imagined?
The question surfaced, logical and unwelcome.
He remained there for several long breaths, posture rigid, senses tuned sharply outward. The hum pressed into him, louder now that his attention was fully attuned to it, grounding him in the present.
Footsteps approached.
A group of crew passed through the adjacent corridor, their movements steady, voices low and unremarkable. The normalcy of their presence tugged Soren back into motion, breaking the stillness like a hand on the shoulder.
He straightened.
Let out the breath he'd been holding.
The moment dissolved—not erased, but folded neatly away.
Soren lingered only a second longer, eyes scanning the passage one last time before turning away. He resumed walking, steps slower now, more deliberate than before. The wind brushed past him again, indifferent.
He took the path upward toward the mid-deck.
The ascent felt longer than usual.
Each stair creaked faintly beneath his weight, the sound nearly lost beneath the constant hum of the Aurelius. His ankle protested more sharply now, the tightness edging toward pain, but he did not stop. He adjusted his grip on the railing, steadying himself without drawing attention to the movement.
Halfway up, he heard it.
A soft sound.
Creak.
So quiet it barely registered—a subtle shift of metal, easily dismissed as the ship settling under its own movement. Soren paused for a fraction of a second, head tilting slightly as his mind reached for pattern.
Then he exhaled.
Dismissed it.
He had been thinking too much. Letting sensation overtake reason. The ship was old. It moved. It breathed. Sounds were inevitable.
He continued upward.
Toward the mid-deck.
Leaving the aerostatic passage—and the unanswered questions—behind him.
_________________________