The hum was louder.
Not sharp. Not irregular. Just present in a way that pressed itself forward, as though it had shifted closer to the surface of the ship. Soren opened his eyes to it, already awake before he realized he had been sleeping at all.
The room was still dark. He could tell immediately—by the absence of that thin, gradual light that crept along the edge of the wall before dawn, by the way the corners of the ceiling remained swallowed in shadow. The Aurelius had not turned yet. It was too early.
Cold lay over him like weight.
The air in his quarters felt different, colder than it should have been, as if the exterior chill had slipped through seams meant to hold. It settled low and close, pressing through fabric, into skin. Soren tightened his grip on the blanket without thinking, drawing it closer around his shoulders, anchoring himself in its familiar texture.
He turned his head and reached for the slate on the bedside surface, tapping it once.
4:57.
He exhaled, slow.
"Might as well be five," he murmured, the words barely disturbing the air. He did not sit up yet. He stayed where he was, listening. The hum held steady. Beneath it, the faintest thread of wind moved somewhere beyond the walls, playful in its inconsistency, tapping and withdrawing, never settling long enough to be counted.
He lay there longer than he meant to. Not resisting the thought that had risen in him—just acknowledging it. A beat of urgency had begun to build, quiet but persistent, like pressure accumulating behind a valve. There was no clear reason for it. No sound had changed. No alert had sounded. And yet, the sense remained.
Get up.
The words did not form fully. They did not need to. His body responded first.
Soren pushed himself upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Cold met him immediately, sharp enough to draw a brief shiver from his frame as the fabric fell away. He paused there, seated, letting the sensation pass.
The hum was clearer now. With his head lifted, unburdened by sleep, he could hear its layers—steady, familiar, unchanged in rhythm yet heavier in presence.
He shifted his weight, testing his ankle as he stood. It held.
Better. A little stiff, the joint reminding him of its recent injury, but manageable. Steady enough to trust. He rolled it once, carefully, and found no sharp resistance. That, too, felt like a small relief.
His head felt clear. Sharper than it had in days. The fog that had clung to his thoughts, softening edges and slowing recognition, was absent. There was no echoing pressure behind his eyes, no dimming at the periphery of his vision.
Instead, there was a heaviness in his chest.
It was subtle—easy to ignore if he wanted to—but it lingered with each breath, a slight strain as his lungs expanded. He drew in air again, slower this time, and felt it resist just enough to be noticed. Not pain. Just… effort.
He dismissed it, for now.
Soren crossed the room and splashed water over his face at the basin, the cold shocking his skin into full awareness. He did not linger. No long ritual, no careful pacing. Just enough to clear the last remnants of sleep from his features before he straightened and reached for his clothes.
He chose warmer layers, fingers moving with quick certainty. The fabric felt heavier in his hands, reassuring. When he finished dressing, he paused only long enough to collect himself before reaching for the door.
The corridor beyond was dim.
Lighting remained low at this hour, softened to preserve the quiet of the quarters. As the door slid open, a figure moved past the far end of the passage—already retreating deeper into the numbered stretch of rooms. Soren caught only the outline before it slipped further into shadow.
He stopped.
Not because the figure had startled him. Not because it had moved quickly. It hadn't. The stride was steady, confident, carrying the person forward without hesitation. Heavy steps, measured and sure, the kind that assumed space rather than borrowed it.
Soren could not see the face. The lighting did not allow for it. But the posture registered immediately—wide shoulders held straight, head level, arms moving in a rhythm that did not belong to someone half-awake or drifting toward rest. There was intent in that movement. Direction.
It did not feel right.
A beat settled in his chest, sharper than the earlier strain. His heart skipped once before finding its rhythm again. He did not know why.
The figure continued on, disappearing between numbered doors, swallowed by the depth of the quarters corridor.
Soren stood still for a moment longer than necessary, his hand resting against the frame of his own door. He noted the impression without naming it, filed it away alongside other small observations that had yet to form a pattern.
Then he stepped out into the corridor.
The wind was much the same as it had been the night before—erratic, playful, refusing to settle into any sustained flow. It brushed past him in faint currents, tugging at the edges of his coat before slipping away. As he turned toward the junction, a flicker of light caught at the corner of his vision.
He paused.
The overhead panel stuttered once, dimming and brightening in a quiet, irregular beat. Soren watched it for a breath, then another. The hum did not change. No alarms followed. The light steadied again, as if nothing had happened.
A bulb nearing the end of its cycle, he thought. Maintenance would catch it soon enough.
He moved on.
Another beat pulsed through him as he passed beneath the light—brief, bodily, unaccompanied by thought. His stride did not falter. His ankle held. He continued down the corridor, the Aurelius carrying on around him, unchanged in every way that mattered.
Behind him, the quarters remained dim and quiet, the numbered doors closed, the hum steady as ever.
He did not look back.
_________________________
The stairwell opened before him in a narrow descent, its rail cool beneath his palm when he reached it. Soren stopped at the top, not stepping down yet. The wind behaved differently here. He felt it immediately—less scattered, less playful than in the upper corridors. It rose from below in a steady upward flow, carrying with it a faint chill that pressed against his shins.
He stood there longer than was necessary to decide anything.
The rhythm of the air was not aggressive. It did not push. It moved with purpose, lifting and settling again, as though following a pattern he could almost trace. The hum of the Aurelius threaded through it, deeper now, its cadence unchanged but fuller in the enclosed space of the stairwell.
Soren adjusted his grip on the rail and took the first step down.
His ankle responded without protest. A slight stiffness followed the motion, a reminder rather than a warning. He shifted his weight carefully, then again, descending one step at a time. The air cooled as he moved lower, the upward current brushing past his legs in a constant flow. By the time his foot reached the final step, the wind had settled below his knees, wrapping the lower half of his body in a chill that felt deliberate rather than accidental.
The lower-deck corridor opened wide before him.
Immediately, he registered the presence of others. Not a crowd. Just enough to notice. A small cluster of crew stood a short distance away, near one of the junctions, their heads inclined toward one another as they spoke. Tools rested against the wall beside them, arranged neatly, not abandoned. They were working.
They looked up as Soren approached.
The pause was brief. Polite. Measured.
He nodded first, a simple acknowledgment, and continued on without slowing. A heartbeat later, they returned the gesture—one after another—before resuming their discussion. The exchange felt practiced, unremarkable on its surface, but the timing lodged itself in Soren's awareness all the same.
As he passed, fragments of conversation reached him, disjointed and incomplete.
"No, wouldn't the latch have a substantial—"
The rest dissolved behind him, swallowed by distance and the hum. He did not turn back to catch it. He did not need to. The cadence of the words was enough to place them—maintenance, structural integrity, a problem being addressed rather than anticipated.
He continued along the outer pathway, choosing the longer route without consciously deciding to do so. The corridor curved gently, guiding him past storage bays and access panels that blended into the architecture with practiced familiarity. Each junction he passed felt attended, as though the Aurelius itself had shifted into a different posture for the night.
There were more people here than there should have been.
Not enough to cause obstruction. Not enough to feel like a shift in protocol. Just… more. Movement where he expected stillness. Figures passing in opposite directions, heads bent toward tasks rather than rest. The lower-deck felt occupied in a way that did not match the hour.
Alive, he thought, and immediately dismissed the word for its imprecision.
The temperature rose slightly as he continued, the chill at his legs giving way to a more tempered air. He noted the change without pausing. His breathing remained steady, though the strain in his chest lingered, a dull pressure that ebbed and returned with each measured step.
At the next junction, he slowed.
Marcell stood there with Kara, their attention fixed on a display set into the wall between them. Both were focused, shoulders angled inward, their conversation contained. Soren lingered just long enough to register the intensity of their posture—the way Marcell's hand hovered near the panel without touching it, the slight tilt of Kara's head as she listened.
Neither noticed him.
He moved on, the warmth fading as the corridor curved again, leading him toward a section of the deck that grew progressively quieter. The wind shifted with the architecture, threading itself along the passage in a sustained flow that brushed against his calves. It no longer bounced erratically from surface to surface. Here, it held.
The aerostatic control passage came into view.
Soren recognized it before he reached it, the familiarity of the space asserting itself through habit rather than sight. The corridor widened slightly at its entrance, the walls reinforced to accommodate the systems housed beyond. The air behaved differently here—more disciplined, its movement regulated and predictable.
He slowed.
The wind-flow was normal. Sustained. Constant. It pressed gently against his legs, no stronger than usual, its temperature cool but stable. Nothing about it suggested disruption. Nothing demanded immediate attention.
And yet.
The first throb struck behind his eyes without warning.
A single pulse, sharp enough to make him blink. He paused mid-step, his hand brushing the wall as he steadied himself. A second throb followed, then a third, each arriving with metronomic precision. By the fourth, the pain had begun to settle into a dull ache, spreading outward from a central point and anchoring itself behind his brow.
He exhaled slowly, careful not to draw the breath too deep. The pressure in his chest answered with a quiet resistance.
Migraine. Not severe. Not yet. Just enough to be noticed.
His gaze drifted to the door of the aerostatic control passage.
It was closed.
Properly sealed, its latch flush with the frame. Indicator lights glowed steadily at the panel beside it, each marking within acceptable parameters. There was nothing visibly wrong. No reason, on the surface, to linger.
He stood there for a moment, his eyes tracing the familiar lines of the door, the reinforced edges where the corridor met the system housing beyond. The wind continued its steady flow at his legs, unchanged by his presence.
He turned away.
The decision felt neither deliberate nor reluctant. It simply happened, his feet carrying him onward as he resumed his path along the corridor. The wind followed him for several steps before thinning out, its regulated flow dissolving back into the broader currents of the lower-deck.
As he moved away from the aerostatic passage, the ache behind his eyes remained, settled now into a persistent presence. His breathing stayed even. The strain in his chest did not worsen, but it did not ease, either.
He adjusted his pace, shortening his stride without slowing entirely. The rest bay lay ahead, its entrance marked by a subtle rise in temperature that promised relief from the chill clinging to his legs.
He angled toward it, choosing the shorter route this time.
The Aurelius continued around him, its hum steady, its systems responsive, its corridors populated with quiet purpose. Soren did not look back at the aerostatic control passage as it slipped from view.
_________________________
The rest bay was quieter than he expected.
The corridor opened into it without ceremony, the change marked more by temperature than sound. Warmth lingered there—not enough to erase the chill entirely, but sufficient to soften it. The air felt thicker, slower, as if movement itself had been asked to rest.
Soren stepped inside and let the door slide closed behind him.
The space was dim, lit only by the low, constant panels set into the walls and ceiling. During the day, the bay filled easily—voices overlapping, bodies shifting, the soft friction of presence layered over the hum of the Aurelius. Now, before dawn, it felt pared down to its essentials.
Three figures occupied the room.
Two sat closer together near the far wall, heads inclined toward one another, posture loose with the familiarity of shared silence. The third was farther back, near the corner where the light thinned, seated alone and still. Curtains hung nearby, partially drawn, marking the entrance to the bunk alcoves beyond.
Soren slowed his pace, taking it in.
Nothing stood out immediately. No raised voices. No abrupt movement. The hum of the ship threaded through the space as it always did, steady and unobtrusive. He crossed to one of the nearer seats and lowered himself into it, exhaling as the warmth seeped through the fabric of his clothes.
His ankle held as he sat. He adjusted his weight once, then stilled.
For a moment, he simply observed.
The two figures across the room remained where they were, engaged in a quiet exchange that did not invite interruption. Their voices stayed low enough that he caught only the cadence, not the words. The lone figure at the back did not move.
Soren's gaze lingered there longer than he meant it to.
The clothing was the first thing he noticed. Tighter than what he was used to seeing on the Aurelius—fitted close to the body, the lines sharp rather than softened by layers. It was not impractical. It did not restrict movement. But it stood apart from the loose uniformity of the ship, where comfort and function usually converged.
He frowned faintly.
The lighting made it difficult to see details, the corner swallowed by shadow. He could not make out the figure's face from where he sat. Just the outline—upright, composed, posture relaxed in a way that suggested awareness rather than rest.
Soren shifted his focus away, resisting the impulse to stare. He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes for a breath, longer this time. The ache behind his eyes pulsed once, then settled again. His chest tightened as he drew air in, the strain noticeable but contained.
Too worked up, maybe, the idea drifting through him without weight. He should rest. Let the moment pass.
The curtain at the back of the bay moved.
Fabric slid aside with a soft whisper, and a figure stepped out from the alcove beyond. Soren opened his eyes.
The movement was unhurried. Confident. The person emerged fully into the low light, adjusting the line of his sleeve with a practiced motion before letting his arm fall back to his side. He was tall—taller than Soren by a noticeable margin—and built solidly, shoulders broad beneath the fitted fabric.
He did not look around.
He walked forward as though he already knew where he was going.
Soren's gaze tracked him before he could stop himself, attention sharpening instinctively. The figure's stride was easy, measured, the rhythm of his steps unbroken as he crossed the space toward the exit. He moved with the assurance of someone accustomed to being seen—and to being unchallenged.
As he drew closer, he glanced toward Soren.
Their eyes met.
"Early, Soren."
The words were quiet. Casual. Familiar in tone.
The sound of his name landed with physical force.
A shiver traced its way down Soren's spine, sharp and involuntary, settling between his shoulders before dissipating into a fine sheen of cold along his back. His breath caught for half a second before he forced it to continue, steadying himself by anchoring his feet against the floor.
The voice was wrong.
Not in volume. Not in intention. The cadence carried something that did not belong to the Aurelius—a difference in register, in the shaping of vowels, in the weight of consonants. It was not accented enough to be unfamiliar on land. He had heard it before. Written it, even, years ago, when Theerians passed through Roenen to visit, to linger briefly before returning home.
The recognition surfaced instantly, unbidden.
Theerin.
The word hovered at the edge of his mouth, nearly escaping before he caught it. He closed his lips, pressing them together for the space of a breath as he gathered himself. His pulse quickened, thudding once against the hollow of his throat.
He smiled.
The expression came easily, shaped by habit rather than feeling. He inclined his head in a small nod, matching the casualness of the greeting as best he could.
"Yes," he replied.
The word sounded ordinary in his own voice, Roenin settling back into place as it always did. He kept his tone neutral, his posture relaxed, though his hands had curled briefly against the seat before loosening again.
The man's smile widened slightly.
"Well," he said, the Theerin register unmistakable now that Soren was listening for it, "I'd better get back to work."
He did not wait for a response.
Turning smoothly, he continued past Soren toward the exit, his steps carrying him out of the rest bay with the same unhurried confidence with which he had entered. The door slid open at his approach and closed again behind him, sealing the space in quiet once more.
Soren remained seated.
He did not move. Not immediately.
The hum of the Aurelius filled the bay again, unbroken by the brief exchange. The two figures across the room had not looked up. The lone seat at the back stood empty now, its occupant gone without comment.
Cold sweat gathered along Soren's spine, seeping through the fabric of his shirt despite the warmth of the room. He resisted the urge to wipe his palms against his trousers, keeping his hands where they were, resting lightly on his knees.
He stayed still.
Not frozen. Just… deliberate.
The ache behind his eyes deepened, pulsing once in quiet emphasis before settling again. His chest tightened as he drew another breath, the effort of it more pronounced now. He focused on the rise and fall, keeping it even.
That voice did not belong here.
Not on this ship. Not on this expedition. Not in this place where dialect had settled into a shared rhythm long before the Aurelius ever left Roenen behind.
Soren did not look toward the door.
He did not follow.
He sat where he was, the warmth of the rest bay pressing in around him, the hum steady and unchanged. The recognition held firm, cold and unmistakable, anchoring itself beneath his ribs.
That man did not belong on this ship.
_________________________