The migraine pulsed once.
Then again.
Then settled.
Not gone—never gone—but reduced to a dull, low-pressure throb that lingered just behind Soren's eyes, like a reminder more than a warning. He adjusted his pace without thinking, letting his steps soften against the deck plating as he continued along the mid-deck corridor.
It was early evening by the ship's internal cycle, though the distinction felt increasingly abstract aboard the Aurelius. Light did not change much between hours here—only the flow of bodies, the rhythm of work, the subtle reallocation of sound. The corridors were quieter now, but not empty. Somewhere between shifts. Somewhere between intention and rest.
Soren exhaled slowly through his nose.
The air moved low along the floor, brushing his boots with a gentle insistence that felt almost deliberate. Not the sharp, unpredictable gusts of the lower deck. Not the softened hush of the upper levels. This was mid-deck air—measured, restrained, shaped by familiarity.
He followed it.
Not directly, but by instinct.
The route he chose was not the shortest path to the mess. It curved wider, looping through older sections of the corridor network where the airflow diffused more gradually, where vents were spaced farther apart and structural ribs broke the current into slower, softer movements. He had learned these paths long ago, mapping them not by signage but by sensation.
Here, the wind did not rush.
It lingered.
Soren's ankle tightened faintly as he turned a corner, the joint protesting just enough to remind him of its presence. He adjusted his stride, redistributing his weight carefully, and continued on without pause. The ache was tolerable—background noise, like the hum of the ship itself.
The hum.
It was steady now, neither rising nor falling, but it carried a density that had not been there yesterday. A fullness. He felt it through the soles of his boots, a vibration that traveled upward and settled somewhere behind his ribs.
He passed a junction and slowed.
The crew schedule panel glowed softly against the wall, its surface filled with columns of names, assignments, and time blocks that scrolled at a measured pace. He had not intended to stop—but his attention snagged all the same, drawn by something he could not immediately name.
Soren turned slightly, angling his body toward the panel.
The names repeated.
Not identically—not in a way that suggested error—but with a frequency that felt… weighted. Certain crews appeared again and again across different task blocks, their assignments spanning longer stretches, overlapping where others rotated out. It was subtle. Easy to miss if one were not looking closely.
He stepped nearer.
The migraine throbbed once, faint but noticeable, and he blinked against it as his gaze tracked the scrolling list. Maintenance. Environmental calibration. Structural monitoring. The same identifiers surfaced across multiple lines, spaced just far enough apart to avoid drawing immediate attention.
More responsibility.
More coverage.
He frowned slightly.
It was not unusual for systems to compensate when crews were under strength. Illness, injury, delayed recovery—these things happened. He scanned the panel again, slower this time, eyes moving deliberately.
Jennie's name did not appear.
The absence registered quietly, without surprise. She was still under medical supervision; he knew that. Recovery took time, and the Aurelius was nothing if not meticulous about reallocating resources when necessary.
The system compensates, he thought.
It always does.
Satisfied—at least on the surface—Soren stepped back from the panel. He turned on his heel to continue toward the mess—
And glanced back once more.
The heartbeat came out of nowhere.
Once.
Then again.
A sharp, sudden skip that caught him off guard, breath stalling for half a second before his body corrected itself. He stilled, hand flexing unconsciously at his side as the rhythm settled back into something steady.
Soren did not know why it happened.
He did not feel afraid.
But the sensation lingered—a brief, inexplicable disruption that left him standing there for a moment longer than intended, gaze fixed on the panel as if it might offer an explanation.
It did not.
He turned away and resumed walking.
The mess entrance came into view a short while later, its doors already parted to accommodate the steady trickle of crew that would pass through as the evening deepened. As Soren crossed the threshold, the change in air was immediate.
Warmer.
Not by much—but enough to register against his skin, to ease the tension in his shoulders by a fraction. The warmth was imperfect, though, threaded through with a cooler undercurrent that spoke of the intensified wind cycling through the ship. Colder than usual, even here.
The mess was quiet.
Two crew sat together at a table off to one side, heads inclined toward one another in low conversation. Their voices did not carry. No one stood at the counter.
A platter rested there instead.
Set out for convenience—simple fare arranged for quick access, the kind meant for those passing through between duties. It was unusual this early, more typical of the midnight hours, but Soren did not question it. The ship adjusted. It always did.
He moved toward the counter.
The two seated crew glanced up as he approached. Their attention lingered for a fraction of a second—long enough to register him, to assess—and Soren inclined his head in a small, polite nod.
Neither responded.
They looked away almost immediately, conversation resuming without pause.
Soren noted it without reaction. Not offense. Not concern. Just… information.
He reached the counter and leaned slightly forward to peer past it.
"Ah—there you are."
Vivian's voice rose from just beyond the counter, bright and unguarded as always. She straightened into view, hair pulled back loosely, eyes already smiling as she looked up at him.
"Evening," Soren greeted, returning the smile with something softer.
"Evening!" Vivian said cheerfully. "You're out early—or late. I can never tell with you."
"Neither can I," Soren replied.
She laughed quietly, glancing toward the platter. "Hungry? There's still plenty. Grab-and-go special."
He shook his head. "No, thank you. I was hoping for a white."
Vivian's brows lifted in mock seriousness. "A white? Living dangerously, I see."
Soren's lips curved. "I try."
"Alright then," she said, already turning toward the preparation area. "I'll get it right to you. Sit wherever—you've got the whole place to yourself."
"Lucky me," Soren murmured.
She flashed him a grin. "Try not to break anything."
"I'll do my best."
Soren stepped away from the counter and crossed the mess, choosing a corner seat tucked slightly farther from the vents. The air pooled there, warmer, slower. He lowered himself carefully, testing his ankle before settling fully into the chair.
From here, he could see the counter clearly.
Vivian moved with her usual ease—but something was different.
Her motions were unhurried.
Not lazy. Not distracted. Just… slower than her normal rhythm, as if she were moving through water instead of air. Soren watched without staring, eyes following the familiar sequence of preparation: the cup placed, the machine engaged, the careful pour.
The hum of the mess blended with the deeper resonance of the ship beyond it.
Soren rested his hands loosely on the table and listened.
The migraine pulsed once more, then receded again, leaving behind only that dull, persistent throb. He breathed through it, attention drifting between sensation and sound, between the warmth of the corner and the subtle chill that still crept along the floor.
Vivian glanced up briefly, caught his gaze, and smiled.
He returned it.
And waited.
_________________________
Soren watched the steam rise from the cup long after Vivian had stepped away.
It curled upward in thin, uncertain ribbons, dissipating almost as soon as it formed, swallowed by the cooler air of the mess. The warmth reached his face faintly, just enough to register, and he leaned into it without quite realizing he had. His fingers curled around the ceramic, absorbing what little heat remained after its short journey from the counter.
The surface was warm.
Not hot.
Comforting in a quiet, restrained way.
He took a sip.
The flavor was clean and familiar—soft bitterness smoothed by milk, the heat spreading slowly down his throat and settling somewhere just below his sternum. He exhaled through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction as the tension he hadn't been aware of loosened.
For a moment, he simply sat.
The mess was still quiet, though not empty anymore. The two crew seated together several tables away spoke in low tones, their conversation indistinct, more rhythm than content. Cutlery clinked softly once, then again. Somewhere near the back, a vent cycled, the sound brief and subdued.
Soren's gaze drifted—not searching, not expecting.
It settled on the entrance.
The sliding doors stood closed, their surface reflecting the ambient lighting in muted bands. He watched them without intention, aware only of the sense that something might happen there. Not that it would. Just that it could.
The thought passed without urgency.
He looked down instead and reached for his ledger.
The leather cover was cool beneath his palm, grounding. He opened it carefully, letting it fall to the first page he'd written earlier that day. The handwriting was steady, precise—his own, unmistakable. Observations layered atop one another, lines clean and measured.
He read without really reading.
His eyes tracked the words, but his mind wandered between them, filling the margins with half-formed thoughts. About the wind. About the way the mess felt warmer than the corridors, yet colder than it should have been. About how his body seemed slightly out of step with the environment around him.
As he reached the bottom of the page, his vision dimmed.
Just for a fraction of a second.
It wasn't darkness, not truly—more like the lights had been turned down abruptly, the edges of his sight softening, blurring inward before snapping back into clarity.
Soren blinked once.
Then again.
The page was unchanged. The words were still there, sharp and legible. His breath had not caught. His heart had not raced.
Still, he frowned.
That was—
He paused, pen hovering near the margin as if he might note it down. The instinct flared briefly, then faltered. The sensation had already passed, leaving no residue behind. No dizziness. No nausea.
Just the lingering echo of absence.
He exhaled quietly and lowered the pen.
Migraine, he told himself.
It was the simplest explanation. The most reasonable. He had not slept well. The ache behind his eyes had followed him throughout the day, pulsing faintly at irregular intervals before fading back into a dull throb. Visual disturbances were not unheard of.
He accepted the thought and moved on.
Another sip of the latte.
This time, the warmth seemed more pronounced, seeping into his hands, coaxing sensation back into his fingers. He adjusted his grip on the cup, letting his palms rest fully against it, and leaned back slightly in his seat.
That was when the wind came.
It slid across the floor without warning, a sudden, cool presence that brushed against his boots and circled them once before settling. The motion was deliberate, almost exploratory, as if testing the space before committing to it.
Soren felt it immediately.
His gaze dropped to his feet, tracking the invisible movement as it dissipated. The mess's airflow was usually gentler than the corridors', filtered through multiple vents and dampeners. This felt… different. Not stronger, necessarily—just more focused.
Localized.
He made a mental note of it, then let his attention drift again.
The two crew at the far table rose shortly after, gathering their trays and speaking softly as they headed toward the exit. The doors slid open and closed behind them, leaving the mess quieter still.
For a while, it was just Soren and the hum of the ship.
He turned another page in his ledger, eyes skimming older entries. Patterns emerged where he hadn't noticed them before—repeated mentions of temperature variance, of airflow behaving inconsistently across decks. He frowned slightly, tracing one line with his finger as if the physical contact might clarify the thought forming just beyond his grasp.
Something about the repetition bothered him.
Not alarmingly.
Just enough to unsettle.
He closed the ledger halfway, resting his palm over the pages to still them, and looked up again.
The entrance remained empty.
He wasn't waiting for anyone. He knew that. There was no appointment, no expectation. And yet, his attention kept returning there, drawn by nothing more than a quiet, persistent sense of something.
He took another sip of his drink, slower this time.
The warmth spread outward from his chest, but it felt muted now, less effective than before. He realized, distantly, that his skin still felt cold—cooler than the room warranted. He flexed his fingers, testing sensation.
Normal.
Probably.
The hum deepened slightly as the ship adjusted course, the vibration thickening beneath his feet. It wasn't enough to draw comment from anyone else, but Soren felt it immediately, the subtle change threading into the ache behind his eyes.
His vision swam—not dimming this time, but softening around the edges, like heat distortion.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Counted his breaths.
When he opened them again, the sensation had receded, leaving only the familiar dull pressure.
You're fine, he told himself.
He returned to the ledger, flipping to a blank page this time. The pen hovered as he considered what to write, if anything. The urge was there—to document, to capture the quiet anomalies before they slipped away—but something held him back.
Not reluctance.
Fatigue.
He set the pen down without writing.
Instead, he sat there, drink cooling in his hands, mind half-occupied with thought and half with sensation. The wind stirred again faintly, brushing past his legs before fading into nothing. Somewhere behind the counter, metal shifted softly as equipment cycled.
Normal sounds.
Normal movement.
And yet—
Soren couldn't shake the feeling that his body was responding to something his mind had not yet caught up to.
He leaned back further in his chair, gaze drifting once more toward the entrance, and waited.
_________________________
Soren closed his ledger as the mess began to fill.
He did not rush the motion. The leather cover met its twin with a soft, final sound, and he rested his palm atop it for a moment longer than necessary, as if sealing his thoughts inside. Around him, the atmosphere shifted—not abruptly, but with the gradual accumulation of presence.
Voices layered in.
Footsteps crossed the threshold in uneven intervals. The sliding doors parted and closed again and again, their mechanisms cycling with muted efficiency. The mess, once sparse and hushed, grew warmer by degrees—not in temperature alone, but in density.
Darrick appeared behind the counter.
He moved with practiced ease, sleeves rolled just enough to stay clear of his hands as he began circulating through the kitchen space. Metal clinked softly. A drawer slid open. Then another. The counter lights brightened a fraction as three fresh platters were set into place, their contents steaming faintly in the cooler air.
Dinner time.
The realization arrived without surprise. Soren glanced toward the chronometer mounted above the service panel and confirmed it. Later than he'd intended to linger. Earlier than he usually ate.
He shifted in his chair and leaned forward, testing his ankle before committing to the motion. The joint protested faintly—a dull, resistant throb that surfaced as soon as weight transferred onto it. He paused, adjusted his stance, and tried again more carefully.
It held.
Not comfortably.
But it held.
Soren stood and made his way toward the counter, steps measured, posture neutral. The warmth near the serving area was more pronounced, radiating outward from the platters in subtle waves. He felt it along his shins, his hands, the lower edge of his sleeves.
He stopped in front of the food, gaze moving slowly over the options.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing sharp.
His attention settled on the risotto—a pale, steaming dish with visible grains, simple and unassuming. Something warm enough to matter, filling without being taxing. He reached for a bowl and served himself with care, the spoon clinking softly against ceramic as he leveled the portion.
Satisfied, he turned and returned to his seat in the corner.
The spot was still warm.
Warmer than it should have been, really, given the rest of the mess. The corner seemed to hold heat, as if insulated by structure or airflow in a way the rest of the room was not. Soren noted it absently as he sat, easing himself down and adjusting his leg until the angle felt tolerable.
He began to eat.
Slowly.
The first bite spread warmth through him immediately, steam brushing his face as he exhaled. He chewed with care, attention half on the texture, half on the steady hum beneath the deck plating. The ache behind his eyes pulsed once—faint, distant—then receded again.
He had just lifted his spoon for a second bite when he felt it.
A gaze.
Not intrusive. Not sharp. Just… present.
Soren looked up.
Rysen had entered the mess.
They caught each other's eyes almost immediately. It was not deliberate, not a search—but familiarity had its own gravity. Their gazes held for the briefest moment, long enough for recognition, then each inclined their head in a small, mutual nod.
Nothing more.
Rysen moved toward the counter, selecting a few items with practiced efficiency. He took less than Soren had, favoring variety over volume, and then—without hesitation—turned and approached the corner.
Soren set his spoon down slightly aside, making room as Rysen slid into the seat across from him. The proximity shifted the air again, a subtle redistribution of warmth and movement.
"This is warm," Rysen said almost immediately, glancing around the corner. His tone was observational rather than surprised. "And you're early."
Soren nodded once. "It's been cold today," he replied. "I've been sitting here since early evening."
Rysen gave a faint huff—something between a breath and a smile—and inclined his head in agreement. "That explains it."
They ate in silence.
It was a comfortable quiet, the kind that did not demand filling. Cutlery moved in slow rhythm. Steam rose and dissipated. Around them, the mess continued its gradual transition into evening—more crew filtering in, conversations blooming and fading, the counter growing busier under Darrick's steady presence.
Soren realized, distantly, that he was eating more slowly than usual.
He adjusted his pace once, then let it settle again.
When they finished, Rysen set his spoon down first and leaned back slightly, gaze shifting—not to the room, but to Soren.
"Are you feeling well?" he asked.
It was not a casual question. There was no implication, no alarm—just assessment, clean and practiced.
Soren considered the question longer than he might have expected. His first instinct was to nod, to offer the default reassurance. Instead, he paused and measured his response honestly.
"Mild migraine throughout the day," he said at last. "And I didn't sleep much last night."
The phrasing felt right—precise without being dramatic.
Rysen studied him quietly. "I could see the faintest red in your eyes," he said after a moment. "And you're eating much slower today."
Soren blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second before the realization settled. He had not noticed either.
"I didn't realize," he admitted.
Rysen's gaze flicked briefly to the corner, then back to Soren. "And this spot," he continued, "is actually much warmer than I think you realize."
He hesitated, then added, "May I?"
The question required no elaboration.
Soren considered for a second—felt the faint pulse behind his eyes, the residual chill clinging to his skin despite the warmth around him—then nodded.
Rysen leaned forward and placed the back of his hand gently against Soren's forehead.
The touch was brief but deliberate. He withdrew it and placed the same hand against his own forehead, brows knitting slightly as he compared the sensation.
"Light fever," Rysen said.
The words landed without drama.
"Follow me to the medical bay," he continued, already standing. "I'll check on your ankle too."
Soren nodded. "Thank you."
Before he could reach for his tray, Rysen had already taken both of them. He moved with quiet efficiency, depositing them at the counter before Soren could protest, then gestured toward the exit.
They left the mess together.
The corridor beyond was cooler, the shift immediate and noticeable. Soren felt it more acutely now, the chill brushing against his skin in a way that made sense in hindsight. His steps were careful but steady as they made their way toward the medical bay, Rysen keeping pace beside him.
Inside, the bay was quiet.
Clinical lights cast a soft, even glow across clean surfaces and drawn curtains. One partition near the back remained closed, fabric hanging still.
Soren noticed it immediately.
"Jennie," he said casually as he took a seat at Rysen's gesture. "The one I brought in previously—how is she?"
Rysen paused mid-motion, then nodded. "Mostly recovered," he replied. "Still under supervision. Full recovery in about two days, if things continue as they are."
Soren nodded, relief settling quietly.
Rysen moved efficiently after that—checking his temperature, confirming the fever, murmuring observations more for record than conversation. He turned to the cabinet and returned with two pills and a cup of water.
"Take these."
Soren did without question, swallowing the pills and handing the cup back.
"Boots," Rysen said gently.
Soren complied, easing them off and resting his foot where directed. Rysen's hands were firm but careful as he inspected the ankle, fingers pressing lightly, adjusting the angle.
"Tell me if it hurts."
It did not.
Then it did.
"—There," Soren said quietly as a dull throb flared.
Rysen nodded, noting it, and continued his assessment without comment. When he finished, he rewrapped the ankle with practiced precision, movements smooth and economical.
"It's recovered a little," Rysen said, straightening. "But much slower than expected. Refrain from excessive movement. Avoid straining the joint—muscle and nerve both need time."
"I will," Soren replied.
Rysen helped him stand, a steadying hand at his elbow until his balance settled. "Update me," he added, tone softer now. "And rest as much as you can."
"Thank you," Soren said again.
Rysen nodded once.
Soren left the medical bay alone, the corridor ahead familiar and quiet, the hum of the Aurelius steady beneath his feet.
And for the first time that evening, he understood just how cold he'd been feeling—and why.
_________________________