The sound came first.
A creak.
Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough.
Soren's eyes opened abruptly, breath catching mid-inhale as awareness surged into place without the softness of sleep's retreat. His body tensed before his thoughts could assemble, muscles tightening as if bracing against something unseen. For a fraction of a second, he lay still, staring at the dark ceiling of his quarters, heart thudding once—hard—before settling into a quicker rhythm.
The creak echoed again in his mind, though not in the air.
Memory or repetition—he could not tell.
He swallowed and focused outward.
The hum of the Aurelius was there, as it always was. Low. Constant. Grounded. Its presence filled the room like a second atmosphere, vibrating faintly through the walls, the floor, the frame of the narrow bed beneath him.
But something else threaded through it.
Fainter.
Subtler.
A secondary texture layered beneath the hum's familiar resonance—like a sound caught between vibrations, too soft to dominate yet too distinct to ignore. It was not rhythmic. Not mechanical in the way the ship usually was.
It reminded him, unsettlingly, of distance.
Soren turned his head slowly and looked toward the chronometer mounted above the door.
03:13
Too early to be awake.
And yet—
He was.
Wide awake, in the way that left no room for argument. His limbs felt heavy but alert, his senses sharpened rather than dulled. The hum pressed into him more insistently now, its volume unchanged yet somehow louder in effect, as if his body were tuned too closely to its frequency.
He shifted onto his side and closed his eyes.
Tried to breathe past it.
The hum did not recede.
Instead, it filled the space behind his eyes, vibrating faintly through his skull. His head pulsed once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
A dull, spreading throb bloomed at his temples, radiating inward with slow inevitability. He hissed softly through his teeth and brought a hand up to his face, fingers pressing lightly against his brow.
He had taken medication before sleeping. He remembered the routine clearly—the water, the pills, the careful hope that rest would smooth the edges of the day's lingering ache.
It had helped.
For a while.
Now the migraine returned as if summoned, blooming fully formed rather than creeping in by degrees. He exhaled and let his arm fall back to the mattress, staring once more at the ceiling.
The wind in his room was still.
Utterly settled.
No draft brushed his ankles. No faint curl of air slipped beneath the door. The air felt stagnant, almost heavy, as if the space had been sealed off from the rest of the ship.
He should sleep.
The thought came easily, logically. Rysen's voice echoed faintly in his memory—rest as much as you can. His ankle ached in quiet agreement, a dull reminder beneath the blankets.
And yet—
Soren swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The decision did not feel like a decision at all.
He sat there for a moment, feet planted on the cool floor, letting the sensation ground him. His ankle protested immediately as he shifted his weight forward, the joint stiff and resistant after hours of stillness. He grimaced faintly but did not stop.
Slowly, carefully, he stood.
He tested his weight once.
Then again.
It held.
Not comfortably.
But it held.
"You should rest," he murmured under his breath, the words sounding hollow in the quiet room.
His body did not listen.
Instead, it moved with the ease of habit, guided by something that felt older than thought. He crossed the room toward the sink, movements precise and unhurried, as if following a path worn smooth by repetition.
The light above the basin flickered on at his touch.
He leaned forward and splashed cold water onto his face, the shock of it sharp enough to steal his breath for a moment. Droplets clung to his lashes, traced cool paths down his cheeks. He straightened slowly and gripped the edge of the basin as he caught his breath.
Then he looked up.
The mirror reflected him faithfully—too faithfully.
Pale.
Drawn.
Dark shadows lingered beneath his eyes, his skin lacking the warmth it usually carried. His expression was alert but strained, as if something within him were stretched too tight.
"Tired," he said quietly, though the word felt insufficient.
His reflection did not argue.
For a moment, he simply stood there, water dripping from his chin back into the basin, listening. The hum pressed against his awareness again, insistent now, calling his attention outward.
Toward the corridors.
Toward the ship.
Toward something below.
He straightened and reached for the simple coat draped over the back of the chair, shrugging into it with practiced ease. The fabric settled around his shoulders, familiar and grounding. He moved toward the door, hand extending toward the handle—
—and froze.
The creak resounded in his head again.
Clearer this time.
Paired with that distant hum he had heard before—outside the hull, near the aerostatic passage. The memory snapped into place with unsettling clarity: the layered sound, the pressure beneath his feet, the sense of something moving where it should not.
His fingers hovered inches from the handle.
For a fraction of a second, he simply paused.
Breathing.
Settling.
Letting the sensation pass through him rather than overtake him.
Then he placed his hand firmly on the handle and turned it.
The door slid open with a soft mechanical whisper, and Soren stepped into the corridor beyond. As it closed behind him, a current of wind brushed past his ankles and swept upward along his calves, curling briefly before dissipating.
He stilled.
That had not been there before.
The air carried motion now—subtle, layered. The hum, too, revealed itself more fully, no longer a single unified presence but a composite of frequencies woven together. Some low and grounding. Others faint, almost skimming the edge of perception.
He exhaled slowly and began to walk.
The quarters corridor lay quiet at this hour, lights dimmed to their night cycle. His footsteps echoed softly, measured and careful, his ankle reminding him of itself with each step. He passed familiar doors, their identifiers glowing faintly in the low light.
He slowed near one in particular.
Atticus's.
The thought surfaced without urgency, barely more than a whisper: Is the Captain awake?
The question lingered for only a moment before dissolving, too insubstantial to hold. Soren continued on, turning toward the stairwell that led downward.
The pull intensified as he descended.
Not physical.
Directional.
His legs moved as if guided by an internal compass, his body responding to cues his mind had not yet named. His vision blurred briefly as he stepped onto the lower deck, fatigue brushing against the edges of his awareness.
Then—
The wind hit him.
Sharper than before.
More erratic.
It darted along the floor, rebounded off structural supports, rose suddenly before vanishing again. The temperature here was noticeably lower, the air biting faintly at his skin.
Could the wind intensity have increased?
The thought surfaced automatically, paired with the memory of projected forecasts. It should have stabilized. Sustained, yes—but not intensified.
His heart began to beat faster.
"There should be more people around the lower deck," he murmured quietly.
Night shift, he reminded himself. Fewer hands. Longer intervals between patrols.
Still—
He saw no one.
The corridors stretched ahead of him, empty and dim. The hum grew louder here, thickening beneath his feet, muffling other sounds. He thought he heard footsteps once—faint, distant—but the sound dissolved into the ship's constant vibration before he could be sure.
As he passed the system junction, a flicker of thought crossed his mind. Carden? Perhaps Marcell. Anyone.
The junction remained empty.
He did not stop.
The aerostatic control passage lay ahead.
With each step closer, his heart thudded louder in his chest, pulse syncing uncomfortably with the ship's vibration. He reached the panel at the junction and placed his hand against it.
The Aurelius responded immediately.
A steady, grounded vibration flowed up through the metal and into his palm, familiar and reassuring. His heart settled a fraction, tension easing from his shoulders as he drew a slow breath.
"Alright," he murmured.
He lifted his hand and engaged the junction that led directly toward the aerostatic passage.
As it activated, the change was immediate.
The wind softened.
Its erratic motion smoothed into something swifter, more deliberate, flowing cleanly along the corridor rather than rebounding aimlessly. Soren noted the shift automatically, cataloguing it even as unease prickled at the back of his mind.
The layers of sound remained.
But they were clearer now.
And something, somewhere below, felt awake.
________________________
The aerostatic control passage opened up ahead of him—unchanged.
That, more than anything else, eased Soren's pace.
The corridor widened into the familiar reinforced chamber, walls layered with old plating and newer patches, the lighting steady and utilitarian. No alarms flashed. No indicators blinked out of sequence. The pressure gauges along the wall read within acceptable range, needles holding firm instead of trembling.
Nothing screamed wrong.
Soren slowed despite himself, shoulders lowering a fraction as the urgency that had driven him here loosened its grip. His breathing evened out, and with it, the tension behind his eyes dulled to something manageable.
Then he saw her.
Liora stood near the central console, posture relaxed but alert in the way of someone who had been awake far longer than was healthy. Her hair was pulled back loosely, strands slipping free at her temples, sleeves rolled up and smudged faintly with grease. She was unmistakable even at a distance—mechanical systems specialist, caretaker of the Aurelius's bones and breath.
Beside her stood a crew member Soren did not immediately recognize.
That alone drew his attention.
The man was broader than most of the crew he was accustomed to seeing—thick through the shoulders, solidly built in a way that suggested manual labor rather than navigation or systems monitoring. His uniform, however, was standard issue, familiar in cut and insignia. Nothing outwardly amiss.
His posture, though—
One hand rested awkwardly above his head, fingers curled against the bulkhead in a half-apologetic, half-sheepish stance. His weight was shifted back on one heel, head tipped slightly downward as if bracing for reprimand rather than confrontation.
Liora noticed Soren first.
Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features before smoothing into recognition. She lifted a hand sharply toward the other crew member.
"That's enough," she said, tone firm but not harsh. "You remember what I told you. Double-check the pressure lock wheel every time. Every time. Don't assume."
The man nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. Won't happen again."
"Good," Liora replied. "See that it doesn't."
She waved him off with a flick of her wrist, and he wasted no time retreating down the adjacent corridor, boots striking the deck a little faster than before. His presence vanished as quietly as it had appeared.
Only then did Liora turn fully toward Soren.
Her gaze swept over him in a single, efficient assessment—his posture, the faint tension in his stance, the pallor he hadn't yet shaken. One brow lifted.
"Why are you down here," she asked, voice dry, "and not asleep, considering how awful you look right now?"
The bluntness was almost comforting.
Soren took her in properly then—the familiarity settling belatedly into place. "I haven't seen you since the beginning of this expedition," he said. "I'm a little surprised."
Liora huffed softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Well, I haven't seen you either," she replied. "But I've heard much of you."
Soren allowed himself a faint smile. "I almost lost you in my archives."
Her laugh came quick and unguarded, echoing lightly off the reinforced walls. "Oh, well. I've just been stuck here ever since. The mechanics of this ship need constant monitoring." She gestured vaguely around them. "I rarely go back to my quarters when the control has a bunk now."
"That sounds… exhausting," Soren said, sincerity threading his tone.
"It is," she agreed without hesitation. Then she paused, expression shifting—not alarmed, but thoughtful. "But you know, it's been needing more monitoring than usual ever since the wind started acting up."
Soren's attention sharpened instantly. "You mean the past month?"
She nodded. "Yes." One brow lifted higher this time. "And from what I can tell, this old ship is beginning to show her age more than she likes to admit. Fragile, in moments like these."
The word settled heavily between them.
Fragile.
Soren relaxed a fraction, enough to ask the question that had been forming quietly in the back of his mind. "Did something happen?"
Liora glanced toward the corridor where the crew member had disappeared, then back at Soren. Her voice lowered—not conspiratorial, but careful.
"You saw the crew just now?" she asked. "He swore he secured the pressure lock wheel when he finished his check. But when I came back… the aerostatic seal wasn't fully engaged."
Soren's brow furrowed. "So that's why the windflow was so strong just before."
She nodded. "Exactly. The system compensated, but not before the airflow surged through the interior corridors." Her lips pressed together briefly. "He was lucky nothing worse happened."
"The wind could damage the interior," Soren said quietly.
"And much more than that," Liora replied, eyes flicking briefly toward the sealed door behind her. "This ship has layers for a reason."
She seemed to consider saying more, then thought better of it. Instead, she straightened and exhaled.
"Anyway," she said lightly, the moment passing. "I should get back in. See you one day."
They exchanged a casual nod—shared understanding without ceremony. Liora turned and grasped the handle of the aerostatic control passage door, engaging the mechanism with practiced precision.
As she opened it, the wind surged.
A sharp, forceful rush of air spilled into the corridor, tugging at Soren's coat, curling around his legs with sudden insistence. The sound rose—a layered rush beneath the omnipresent hum—before cutting off abruptly as Liora stepped through and sealed the door behind her.
The passage returned to stillness.
The hum remained.
Soren stood alone in the corridor, the echoes of the wind lingering faintly against his skin. The space felt… settled again. As if the ship had exhaled and resumed holding its breath.
Nothing appeared wrong.
And yet—
He lingered for a moment longer than necessary, eyes drifting toward the sealed door, thoughts turning slow and heavy. A pressure lock wheel left unsecured. A stronger-than-expected wind. An unfamiliar crew member with familiar credentials.
Small things.
Individually harmless.
Together—
Soren turned away before the thought could finish forming.
_____________________________
The corridor felt altered in a way that resisted definition. Not colder—though the chill lingered faintly against his skin—but quieter, as if some pressure had equalized and left behind an absence rather than relief. The hum of the Aurelius remained, steady and grounding, yet it felt less dominant now, its edges smoothed, its presence redistributed through the structure instead of pressing directly against his senses.
He exhaled.
Only then did he realize he had been holding his breath.
The tension ebbed gradually, draining from his shoulders and down his spine in slow increments. His heart rate eased, the earlier urgency receding into something more distant and diffuse. Whatever had drawn him here—whatever thread had pulled him from his quarters and down into the ship's deeper systems—seemed to loosen its grip.
For now.
Soren adjusted the fall of his coat and began to move.
His steps were slower this time, measured not by alertness but by fatigue settling back into his limbs. The warmth he had been missing earlier crept back into his fingers first, then his palms, a faint tingling that spread as circulation caught up with exertion. His feet followed, the chill retreating reluctantly as he walked.
He chose the path upward.
Not the most direct route, but the one he knew best—the one that curved gently back toward the mid-deck before rising further. It allowed him time. Time to let his thoughts drift without anchoring too firmly to any one conclusion.
The stairwell welcomed him with its familiar geometry.
As he ascended, the air changed subtly again. The erratic currents of the lower deck softened into broader, slower movements, less insistent, more predictable. The temperature climbed by barely perceptible degrees, enough that his breath no longer fogged faintly when he exhaled.
His ankle protested on the third step.
A dull ache flared, then settled into a steady throb as he adjusted his weight. He paused briefly, fingers tightening around the rail, and reminded himself—again—that he should be resting. That Rysen's instructions had been clear. That none of this was urgent enough to justify strain.
And yet—
He continued.
The hum shifted as he climbed, its resonance thinning slightly, redistributing through the upper supports of the ship. The layered quality he had noticed earlier remained, but it felt farther away now, less intimate. Whatever subtle discord had sharpened his senses below seemed to recede with each step upward.
By the time he reached the mid-deck landing, his breathing had evened out.
The corridors here were dim but not empty. A pair of maintenance lights glowed along the ceiling, their soft illumination reflecting off the brushed metal walls. Somewhere down an adjacent passage, a door slid open and closed again—quiet, routine.
Normal.
The reassurance settled deeper than he expected.
Soren resumed walking, his route carrying him toward the residential wing. His thoughts drifted back, unbidden, to the exchange with Liora. Her words replayed themselves with quiet persistence.
Fragile, in moments like these.
He had spent enough time aboard the Aurelius to know her rhythms, her strengths, her limitations. She was old, yes—but well-kept. Adapted. Maintained by people who knew her intricacies intimately.
And yet, age had a way of revealing itself not through catastrophic failure, but through accumulation. Through small lapses. Through systems that required just a little more attention than before.
A pressure lock wheel left unsecured.
A wind surge compensated for, but not prevented.
A crew member he did not recognize—yet whose uniform fit seamlessly among the rest.
None of it constituted a threat.
Not yet.
Soren reached the familiar stretch of corridor that led to his quarters and slowed further, his body growing heavier with each step as exhaustion finally asserted itself. The earlier sharpness dulled, replaced by the deep, bone-set weariness that followed prolonged vigilance.
He stopped in front of his door.
For a moment, he simply stood there, hand hovering near the panel, listening.
The hum was steady.
No creaks.
No subtle dissonance threading through it.
Just the Aurelius, moving through the void as she always did.
He keyed in the passcode.
The panel beeped softly.
Once.
Then again.
The second beep seemed to stretch longer than the first—not in reality, he suspected, but in perception. His thoughts drifted, unmoored, and the sound filled more space than it should have.
The door slid open.
Soren stepped inside and let it close behind him with a muted whisper.
The room welcomed him with stillness.
The air was warmer here than the corridors, contained and quiet. He slipped off his coat and hung it neatly by the door, then crossed to the sink once more to wash his hands. The water ran clear and cool, the sensation grounding in its simplicity.
He dried his hands carefully and moved toward the bed.
As he eased himself down, his ankle sent one final, sharp reminder through him before settling. He adjusted his position, finding an angle that minimized the ache, and lay back against the pillow.
The ceiling stared back at him, familiar and unchanging.
The hum pressed gently now, no longer intrusive—just present.
Soren closed his eyes.
Sleep did not come immediately.
His thoughts lingered in that in-between space, replaying fragments without coherence: the rush of wind as the aerostatic seal opened, Liora's measured concern, the unfamiliar crew member's apologetic posture. Small images, unthreatening on their own, yet threaded together by something he could not quite articulate.
Eventually, the edges softened.
His breathing slowed.
The hum became background once more.
And as he drifted toward rest, unaware of how little distance lay between prevention and consequence, the Aurelius carried on—quiet, steady, and just a little more vulnerable than she had been the night before.
_________________________