By the third morning, the Aurelius felt less like a strange machine and more like a place.
Soren noticed it first in the way he walked.
He no longer had to think about which corridor turned toward the mess and which led to the deck. His feet moved automatically, adjusting for the ship's sway without conscious effort. He didn't brace against the walls as often. His hand no longer hovered near the railing out of reflex.
The ship's movements had become part of the background of his thoughts.
He took breakfast earlier than usual that day. The mess hall wasn't crowded yet—only a few crew scattered across the tables. Nell wasn't there; Tamsin was hunched over a bowl and a manifest at the same time, which seemed normal by now. Elion and Everett were nowhere in sight; they were probably already at navigation.
Soren ate quickly, more out of practicality than hunger. He had notes to organize and sections of Everett's reports he still wanted to reread before the day became busy.
He returned his tray and headed for the deck.
___________________________________________________________________________
The main deck was quieter than it would be an hour later. Liora paced slowly along the engine panels, listening as much as watching. Bram crouched near a junction of pipes, muttering something about pressure that Soren couldn't quite hear.
Everett stood near the windows, reviewing a fresh stack of reports.
Soren approached him. "Do you need help with documentation this morning?" he asked.
Everett glanced up. "Not immediately. I'm updating yesterday's readings first." His gaze flicked toward the satchel at Soren's side. "You have your own work to do."
"I was going to review the anomaly summaries again," Soren said. "And maybe refine yesterday's entry."
"A reasonable plan," Everett said. "You might want to do that somewhere quiet. The deck will be noisy soon."
Soren nodded. "The observation walkway?"
"That, or—" Everett's eyes shifted toward the upper level of the deck, where a narrow staircase led to a smaller corridor. "There's a side alcove near the captain's briefing room. It's usually empty between meetings. Good light. Less foot traffic."
"I didn't know we were allowed up there," Soren said.
"We are," Everett replied. "The space is shared. Just don't linger outside private doors."
"Of course."
Everett returned to his documents. Soren offered a small thanks and turned toward the stairs.
___________________________________________________________________________
The steps were narrow but stable. The higher he climbed, the more the sound of the engines seemed to blend into a single, low chord—less distinct, but still present.
At the top, the corridor stretched in a straight line along the side of the ship. A few doors lined the wall, each with small plaques: { Briefing Room A, Chart Storage, Captain's Office. }
Soren slowed slightly as he passed the last one.
He wasn't intending to linger—it was simply instinct to read the plaque. The door was closed, as expected. No sound came from inside.
Beyond it, the corridor widened into a modest alcove with a narrow bench fixed beneath a smaller window. A wall-mounted lamp cast steady light across the space. It felt tucked-away but not hidden—an in-between place.
Soren sat, setting his satchel beside him.
He drew out the memoir and Everett's anomaly summaries and spread them on his lap, using the flat of his palm to smooth the pages against the faint ship vibration.
For a while, he read.
The reports were still frustratingly vague—descriptions of instrument glitches, brief visual discrepancies, unconfirmed map errors recorded near the frontier line. Some observations contradicted others. Some simply stopped mid-investigation when the ships turned back.
He underlined a few phrases, marked a dates column that seemed out of sequence, and added a small question mark near one particularly incomplete report.
He was so focused that he didn't hear the door open behind him.
___________________________________________________________________________
"Soren Eryndor."
His name—spoken in a steady, low voice.
He looked up, startled.
Atticus Riven stood a few paces away, just outside the doorway marked Captain's Office. He was holding a slim folder, the edge of a chart peeking out. His expression was neutral but alert, as though he'd stepped directly from focused work into focused observation without a break between.
Soren stood quickly. "Captain. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to loiter—"
"You're not," Atticus said. "This alcove is open for use. I'm only surprised I haven't seen you here sooner."
"I didn't know about it until this morning," Soren admitted. "Everett suggested it."
Atticus gave a faint sound of acknowledgment. His gaze dropped briefly to the papers on Soren's lap.
"The Bureau's anomaly reports," he noted. "You've gone through them already?"
"Once," Soren said. "I'm rereading. There are gaps."
"There are always gaps," Atticus said. "That's one of the reasons you're here."
He paused, then added, "If you have some time, I'd like to speak with you. Properly."
Soren's back straightened instinctively. "Of course."
Atticus stepped aside and gestured toward the open door. "Come in."
___________________________________________________________________________
The room was smaller than Soren expected.
It wasn't filled with trophies or personal effects. Instead, there was a single broad desk bolted to the floor, a wall of neatly hung charts, and a set of shelves holding a modest number of ledgers and reference texts. A narrow window looked out across a sliver of sky and wing.
Everything was organized, but not in a stiff or decorative way. It was simply efficient.
Atticus moved behind the desk and set his folder down. "Close the door, please," he said.
Soren did so, the latch clicking softly into place.
"Sit," Atticus added, indicating the chair opposite him.
Soren took the seat, setting his satchel beside his legs.
Atticus opened the folder, glanced over a page, then looked up.
"I've gone through your assignment documents again," he said. "You were recommended by the Archive's senior council."
"Yes, Captain," Soren replied. His palms felt a little warm, but his voice stayed even. "They informed me of the selection last month."
"They seemed confident in your ability to record accurately," Atticus continued. "Unembellished. Consistent. Is that a fair assessment?"
"I do my best to be precise," Soren said.
"Do you ever dramatize for effect?" Atticus asked, tone even—not accusing, just direct.
"No, Captain."
"Do you ever omit details because you believe they are unimportant?"
Soren thought carefully. "Sometimes," he said. "When a detail is redundant and would cloud the record rather than clarify it."
Atticus watched him for a moment. "Explain."
Soren tried to put it into words. "If three different incidents demonstrate the same pattern, writing all three in exhaustive detail can make the pattern harder to see. In those cases, I focus on the clearest example and summarize the others."
"You choose which example is clearest," Atticus said.
"Yes."
"That gives you considerable power," Atticus observed.
Soren didn't flinch. He had thought the same many times. "It does," he said. "I'm aware of that. I try to use that judgment carefully."
Atticus's gaze remained steady on him.
"And when you're unsure?" he asked. "When you aren't certain whether something is pattern or noise?"
"Then I record more," Soren said. "Even if it feels unnecessary. It's safer to risk excess than omission."
Atticus considered this.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the low hum of the ship through the walls.
___________________________________________________________________________
"You understand," Atticus said slowly, "that this expedition is likely to be examined more closely than most. By the Bureau. By the Council. Possibly by others who were not in the room when decisions were made."
"Yes, Captain," Soren replied.
"The record from this voyage may shape how future expeditions are carried out," Atticus continued. "It may justify more missions. Or fewer. It may support the Bureau's version of events, or contradict it."
His eyes had not left Soren's face.
"Do you feel prepared for that responsibility?"
Soren hesitated—not out of fear, but because he wanted to answer honestly.
"I don't know if anyone can be prepared for it fully," he said. "But I accepted the position understanding that my record would be used that way. I won't alter details to suit expectations."
"Not even if those expectations are from the people who hired you?" Atticus asked.
"Especially then," Soren said quietly.
Atticus's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something that softened his expression by a fraction.
"Good," he said. "That aligns with what the council wrote."
Soren relaxed slightly in his chair.
Atticus shifted the folder aside and steepled his fingers lightly.
"The Bureau's directives to you," he said, "mention objectivity. They insist on it. The council repeats the word three times in their endorsement."
Soren nodded.
"Objectivity is important," Atticus said. "But you are also human. You will form opinions. Preferences. Trusts." He paused. "You will see people at their best and worst. Including me."
Soren listened.
"I don't require you to be without opinion," Atticus said. "I require you to distinguish between what you see and what you conclude. When you write, label one as clearly as the other. Do you understand the difference?"
"I believe so," Soren said. "Observation is what happened. Conclusion is what I think it means."
"And?" Atticus prompted.
"And I should make sure a future reader can tell which is which," Soren finished.
Atticus nodded once. "Exactly."
He sat back slightly, studying Soren in a way that felt less like scrutiny and more like evaluation.
"You are not part of the command structure," Atticus said. "You don't answer directly to me in the way Marcell does. But you do work within this ship's system. If you witness a breach of safety, you report it to the appropriate officer. If you see an error in record-keeping, you correct it. You do not stand aside and claim neutrality as an excuse for inaction. Do you accept that?"
"Yes, Captain," Soren said at once.
"Good."
Atticus turned a page in the folder, then closed it.
There was a brief, quiet pause.
Soren became aware of the soft creak of the hull as the ship shifted slightly with the air currents, the faintest rattle of something in the ceiling overhead.
He waited, not wanting to speak out of turn.
Atticus finally said, "Is the ship making sense to you yet?"
It wasn't the question Soren expected.
He blinked. "Some parts," he said. "The movement. The deck routines. The way the teams communicate."
"And the rest?" Atticus asked.
"It's still… large," Soren admitted. "But not as overwhelming as the first day."
Atticus's gaze eased, just slightly.
"That's normal," he said. "Adjustment takes time. Don't rush it."
Soren nodded.
Atticus leaned back in his chair, as if preparing to continue, and Soren had the sense that this conversation wasn't finished yet—that there was something more the captain wanted to ask or say.
The hum of the Aurelius filled the short silence that followed.
___________________________________________________________________________
Atticus didn't speak right away.
He closed the folder completely, flattening his palms lightly over its cover as if marking an end to the administrative portion of the conversation. But something in his posture—shoulders set but not rigid, gaze steady but not sharp—suggested he wasn't dismissing Soren yet.
Soren remained quiet, waiting.
"You've been observing the crew," Atticus said finally. "Not only for your record. For understanding."
"Yes," Soren admitted.
"What's your impression of them so far?"
Soren paused, thinking.
"Competent," he said. "Structured… but adaptable. They communicate more with routine than with words, but everyone seems to know their place in the system."
"That's an accurate summary," Atticus said. "And your impression of the officers?"
Soren chose his words carefully. "They move with purpose. There's very little wasted time."
Atticus's expression didn't change, but his fingers eased their grip on the folder.
"Purpose is necessary," he said. "Especially on a ship like this."
Soren nodded. "And you, Captain?"
Atticus lifted an eyebrow—not offended, not surprised. Just waiting.
"You direct efficiently," Soren said. "Not abruptly. You give instructions clearly. People respond well to that."
"And you?" Atticus asked. "Do you respond well to direction?"
Soren met his eyes. "Yes."
Atticus studied him in silence for a moment, assessing—not doubtfully, but thoughtfully, as though measuring something beyond the simple content of Soren's answer.
"You don't speak unnecessarily," Atticus noted.
"I try not to," Soren said.
"That will serve you well here," Atticus replied. "Some speak too much. Some too little. You choose your words with intent."
Soren felt a faint warmth at his collar, not of embarrassment but of being—seen.
Atticus leaned back slightly, chair creaking under the shift of weight.
"You ask fewer questions than I expected," he continued.
"I don't want to interrupt the flow of work," Soren said.
"There is a difference," Atticus said, "between unnecessary interruption and essential clarity. Do not hesitate to ask when clarity is needed. Lack of information is more dangerous than asking at the wrong time."
Soren nodded once. "I understand."
"Good."
Atticus's gaze dropped briefly to the memoir resting beside Soren's leg.
"May I see your notes?" he asked.
Soren blinked. "My… notes?"
"Yes. Not the full memoir. Just your working entries—your raw observations."
Soren hesitated only because the idea felt unexpectedly intimate. Raw notes were not yet refined. They were imperfect, sometimes fragmented, sometimes inelegant. But Atticus's request wasn't intrusive; it was professional.
Soren opened the satchel and handed over a slim, folded sheet—yesterday's shorthand, not yet transcribed.
Atticus unfolded it.
His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, taking in each line. Soren watched the faint shifts in his expression—almost imperceptible, but present. A narrowing of focus here, a brief pause there, the way his thumb brushed the edge of the paper as though considering the weight of it.
When he finished, he refolded the page along the creases and returned it.
"You write cleanly," Atticus said.
"Thank you, Captain."
"Not cleanly in penmanship," Atticus clarified—not dismissing Soren's handwriting, just pushing deeper. "Cleanly in judgment. You separate observation from interpretation."
"That is what I try to do," Soren said.
Atticus nodded. "Keep doing that."
He rested his elbows lightly on the desk. "Your predecessor on the first expedition… struggled with that distinction."
Soren listened carefully.
"He embellished," Atticus continued. "He exaggerated risks, diminished routine work, rewrote dialogue to strengthen narrative arcs that did not exist." A faint tightness entered his tone—not anger, but memory of frustration. "The record became nearly unusable."
Soren quietly absorbed that. "I'll avoid those mistakes."
"I know."
There was no emphasis to the words. No praise. Just a simple statement of confidence, delivered with the same steadiness as everything else Atticus said. Oddly, that made it land more firmly.
Soren breathed a little easier.
___________________________________________________________________________
Atticus shifted the conversation.
"Tell me," he said. "What have you learned about crew interactions so far?"
Soren exhaled thoughtfully. "Some relationships are longstanding," he said. "Everett and Elion have a rhythm—they complement each other's work. Liora and Bram argue, but it seems functional, not hostile. Nell gets along with everyone."
Atticus made a quiet sound of agreement.
"And Tamsin?" he asked.
Soren considered. "Direct. Efficient. Easily irritated, but fair."
Atticus's mouth twitched. "Accurate."
Soren hesitated… then added, "People listen when she speaks."
"They should," Atticus said. "She knows this ship's storage better than anyone."
Soren nodded.
Atticus shifted slightly forward. "And Marcell?"
Soren met his gaze. "He expects precision," he said. "Clear protocol. He has no interest in unnecessary commentary."
"That is Marcell," Atticus said. "He's been my vice-captain for years."
Soren sensed a quiet respect in Atticus's tone—not personal warmth, but trust built through time and performance.
"What about me?" Atticus asked, voice even.
Soren inhaled—slow, steady, careful. He didn't want to flatter or avoid. He wanted to answer truthfully.
"You lead without wasting words," he said. "Your commands are structured and consistent. And people follow them because they trust you understand the ship as well as they do."
Atticus held his gaze for a few seconds more.
Then he said, "Good. That's the beginning of understanding."
Not approval.
Not correction.
Just acknowledgment.
___________________________________________________________________________
Atticus stood, not abruptly, but smoothly.
Soren rose as well.
"You may continue using this alcove," Atticus said. "If it helps you focus."
"It does," Soren said. "Thank you."
Atticus stepped around the desk, stopping near the window. The light cut across his profile, sharp and clean.
"There is something else I expect from you," he said.
Soren straightened slightly.
Atticus continued, "I expect honesty. If something on this ship confuses you, you say so. If something feels unclear, you ask. If you make an error, you report it."
"Yes, Captain."
"And," Atticus added, turning just enough to meet Soren's eyes, "if you observe something that concerns you—anything—bring it to me or Marcell. Do not assume it is unimportant."
"I won't," Soren said.
Atticus nodded once. Not ceremonially. Not intensely. Just… firmly.
The kind of nod that meant the conversation had reached its natural end.
Soren gathered his papers and slipped them back into his satchel.
He moved toward the door—then paused.
"Captain," he said softly.
Atticus looked up.
"Thank you for taking the time to speak with me," Soren said. "Properly."
Atticus studied him for a moment—longer than necessary for simple acknowledgment.
Then:
"You're part of this crew now, Soren. I speak with my crew."
A simple statement.
A grounded one.
Soren bowed his head. "I understand."
He opened the door, stepped into the quiet corridor, and let it close behind him.
The hum of the Aurelius surrounded him once more.
He exhaled—not heavily, not shakily. Just… thoughtfully.
The conversation had been longer than he expected. Clearer. More direct. It settled something inside him—something he hadn't realized was slightly unsettled.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel and headed down the corridor toward the stairs.
The day was just beginning.
___________________________________________________________________________