Rysen's hand closed around Soren's arm before he could complete the misstep.
"Careful."
The word was low, instinctive—spoken more as reflex than reprimand.
Soren's weight had already tipped forward, his own caution betraying him in that particular way it always did when he tried too hard to compensate. Too careful, too deliberate. The shift in balance was subtle but enough. Rysen's grip steadied him immediately, firm at the elbow, anchoring without force.
"I've got you," Rysen added, quieter.
Soren exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction as his footing corrected itself. His ankle protested faintly but held.
"Thank you," he said, voice even. "I misjudged."
"It happens," Rysen replied.
He did not release him immediately.
Instead, he adjusted his hold slightly—guiding rather than restraining—until Soren was fully upright again, weight distributed evenly, posture settled. Only then did Rysen loosen his grip, though his hand remained close, hovering just long enough to ensure Soren truly had his balance.
They stood there for a brief moment in the lower-deck corridor, the space around them narrow and utilitarian. Pipes traced the walls overhead, cables bundled neatly along the ceiling seams. The hum here was denser, more compact, the sound of systems working closer to the body of the ship.
"Where are you headed?" Rysen asked as they began to move again.
"The mess," Soren replied. "I haven't eaten since midday."
Rysen glanced at him sidelong. "That explains the misstep."
Soren allowed a faint smile. "Possibly."
They walked together, up the stair, towards the mess. Rysen matching his pace without comment. It was a small thing—easily overlooked—but Soren noticed it all the same. The way Rysen adjusted his stride naturally, neither drawing attention to it nor pretending otherwise. No fuss. No insistence. Just accommodation.
As they ascended toward the mid-deck, the air shifted.
It was subtle at first—a change in pressure more than temperature. Then the wind made itself known.
Soren felt it immediately as his foot crossed the threshold.
The mid-deck floor carried the sensation differently than the lower levels. Here, the airflow spread outward, less confined, settling low and wide across the deck plating. It curled around his boots, persistent and steady, not gusting but present in a way that could not be ignored.
The wind had begun its course.
Mid-intensity, just as predicted.
The memory surfaced unbidden—other days, other stretches of travel when the wind had been constant, when its presence became a companion rather than an intrusion. The mid-deck always bore it most clearly, a place where movement and atmosphere intersected most visibly.
Rysen felt it too.
His shoulders shifted slightly, posture adjusting as his coat stirred faintly at the hem. He did not comment, but his gaze lifted, scanning ahead with quiet attentiveness.
They continued forward.
The mid-deck felt quieter than usual. Not empty—crew still moved through the corridors, footsteps echoing softly, voices carrying faintly from adjacent passageways—but subdued. As if sound itself were being pulled inward, gathered and held. There was a tension to it, not sharp, but present. A sense of being drawn forward rather than merely passing through.
Soren noticed it in the way the air pressed just a little heavier against his chest.
At the junction near the stairwell leading upward, something flickered at the edge of his vision.
A darker uniform.
Just a glimpse—fabric moving across the upper-deck landing, then gone. The impression was fleeting enough that his mind immediately supplied alternatives. Light refraction. Angle of sight. The way the wind distorted perception along the open spans of the ship.
He did not slow.
Rysen did not react.
They passed the junction and continued toward the mess. The temperature dropped as they crossed the threshold.
Soren felt it immediately.
Cold.
Not the gentle coolness that sometimes lingered during late hours, but something sharper—unusual for the mess, which was almost always warm, designed to be a place of comfort and gathering. The air here carried a chill that brushed against his skin, raised faint awareness along his arms beneath the fabric of his shirt.
The mess, however, was crowded.
More so than it had been in days.
Crew filled the space in loose clusters, voices overlapping in a low murmur, chairs scraping softly against the floor as people shifted and made room. The hum of conversation sat beneath the ship's resonance, layered but restrained.
Soren registered the discrepancy immediately.
Cold air.
More people.
The thought passed through him without settling.
They approached the counter together.
Vivian stood behind it, posture slightly slouched, one hand braced against the surface as she scanned a data slate. Her hair was pulled back more tightly than usual, dark strands framing a face drawn with fatigue. When she looked up, there was a faint crease between her brows.
"Evening," she said.
"Evening," Rysen replied, eyes already assessing.
Vivian pressed two fingers briefly to her temple. "Migraine," she added before either of them could ask. "It's manageable."
Rysen's expression softened, though his tone remained professional. "If it escalates—visual disturbances, nausea, loss of coordination—you come find me."
She gave a tired smile. "I will. Promise."
Rysen nodded once, satisfied for now.
Soren's attention drifted to the platters laid out behind the counter.
Three of them.
The arrangement was neat, deliberate. The food looked as appealing as ever—rich colors, careful presentation, steam curling faintly upward—but something in Soren hesitated. The memory of earlier meals surfaced uninvited. The not-quite-different taste. The inconsistency that defied easy explanation.
Rysen moved forward naturally, selecting from one of the platters with practiced ease.
Soren, after a moment's consideration, spoke. "Mushroom soup, please. And bread."
Vivian blinked in mild surprise but nodded, turning to prepare it without comment.
They moved away from the counter and toward a table near the entrance of the mess—a corner spot, slightly removed from the densest clusters. Rysen set his tray down first and took a seat. Soren followed more carefully, easing himself into the chair with deliberate control.
The soup arrived shortly after.
Steam rose gently from the bowl as Soren wrapped his fingers around it, appreciating the warmth against his palms. Rysen waited until Soren had begun eating before lifting his spoon.
The first taste was… fine.
Not wrong.
Not altered.
But, bland.
The realization surfaced quietly, without alarm. He could taste the mushroom, the pepper, the salt—each element present and accounted for—but the cohesion was missing. As if the flavors existed side by side rather than together.
Soren paused for the briefest moment.
Then continued.
Across from him, Rysen looked up—just a flicker of attention, eyes lifting as if he'd sensed the pause. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary, then dropped back to his meal.
Soren did not notice.
They ate in silence.
Not an uncomfortable one.
The kind that settled naturally between people accustomed to each other's presence. Around them, the mess continued its quiet rhythm—cutlery tapping softly, chairs shifting, voices rising and falling in gentle waves.
The cold remained.
_________________________
Rysen finished first.
He set his spoon down with a soft, controlled motion, folding his hands loosely on the edge of the tray as he waited. Soren noticed only distantly, still working his way through the soup at an unhurried pace. The warmth had begun to ease the tightness in his shoulders, even if the ache in his ankle remained—a dull, persistent presence rather than a sharp complaint.
When Soren finally placed his spoon down, the bowl nearly empty, he exhaled quietly through his nose.
Routine followed.
The sort that did not require words.
Soren shifted slightly in his seat, fingers brushing the edge of the table as he prepared to stand. The motion was cautious, deliberate—too deliberate, perhaps. His ankle had gone oddly numb now, the ache muting into a tight, unresponsive heaviness that made him wary of sudden movement.
Before he could rise, Rysen spoke.
"Stay," he said, already reaching for Soren's tray. "I'll take these."
Soren paused.
"It's fine," he replied reflexively. "I can—"
"I've got it," Rysen said, tone even, not unkind. Not pressing, either. Just… decided.
Soren hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
Rysen gathered both trays with practiced ease and stood. His movements were economical, efficient—no wasted motion, no rush. He carried them back to the counter, exchanging a brief nod with Vivian as he passed.
Soren remained seated.
He let himself settle back for a moment, hands resting loosely on his thighs. Around him, the mess continued its low murmur, though it felt thinner now, as if the space itself were slowly emptying of sound. The cold lingered, brushing faintly against his skin, but it was not unpleasant. Just present.
Rysen returned shortly after.
As Soren shifted forward again to stand, he felt it—
A hand at his elbow.
Firm. Grounding.
Not gripping. Not restraining.
Just there.
Soren looked up slightly. "Thank you."
Rysen released him immediately once Soren's weight had settled properly on both feet. "Any time."
They stepped away from the table together and moved toward the exit of the mess. Rysen positioned himself close—not crowding, but near enough that Soren was acutely aware of his presence. It felt… intentional. Not protective in an obvious way. More like a quiet anchoring.
Soren did not dwell on it.
Rysen has always been attentive and careful.
The corridor beyond the mess greeted them with a subtle shift in air pressure. The hum of the Aurelius deepened here, layered and steady, threading through the metal beneath their feet.
"You heading back to your quarters?" Rysen asked.
Soren considered.
He felt the answer before he fully formed it.
"I was thinking of going outside," he said. "Just for a while. To get some fresh air."
Rysen glanced at him, expression unreadable. He did not respond immediately.
"I'll go with you," he said at last.
It was not a question.
Soren blinked once, then shook his head lightly. "You don't have to. I'll be careful."
Rysen shrugged, already adjusting his direction slightly. "I know."
And so, they continue to walk.
The corridors leading toward the exterior access were quieter at this hour, footsteps fewer, voices distant. The further they moved, the more the air seemed to shift—cooler, denser. The wind made itself known again, pressing faintly against the walls as if testing them.
They stopped before the door.
Rysen's gaze flicked briefly to the indicator panel above it, then back to Soren.
"It's windy," he said.
Before Soren could respond, the door slid open.
Cold air rushed in immediately—steady, assertive, carrying with it the sharp clarity of open space. It brushed across Soren's face, down his neck, through the thin layers of fabric as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.
His breath caught.
Not painfully. Not fully.
Just enough.
His heart skipped once—harder than he expected—and for a brief, disorienting moment, the familiar pressure began to gather behind his eyes. A warning echo. A near-migraine, hovering at the edge of formation.
Soren steadied himself.
Rysen's presence beside him did not waver.
They stepped through together.
_________________________
The wind met them fully once they stepped onto the outer deck.
Not a sudden force, not violent—but steady, assertive in its presence. It moved across the hull in long, continuous currents, brushing against their coats, threading through loose strands of hair, tugging faintly at fabric as if testing what it could take with it.
Soren let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The open air wrapped around him differently than the interior ever could. It pressed close without constriction, loud in sensation if not in sound. The wind filled space the way water did—occupying everything, leaving no gap untouched.
He moved to the railing instinctively.
One hand rested against the cool metal, fingers curling around it as he shifted his weight carefully, settling into a stance that spared his ankle. His other arm hung loose at his side, shoulders lowering as his body relaxed a fraction despite the cold.
Beside him, Rysen leaned forward, forearms resting against the rail, hands clasped loosely together. The wind ruffled his hair more freely, light strands lifting and settling again, unbothered. He seemed at ease here—comfortable with exposure, with the openness of the sky.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The sky had darkened considerably since earlier. The clouds were no longer bright and defined, now reduced to layered silhouettes drifting slowly overhead. No stars yet—just a deepening blue-black expanse, vast and unreadable.
The wind flowed between them, loud in Soren's awareness.
Not threatening.
Not sharp.
Just… encompassing.
"It's louder than I expected," Soren said at last.
Rysen hummed softly in agreement. "It does that sometimes."
Soren glanced at him. "You don't seem bothered by it."
"I notice it," Rysen replied. "But I don't fight it."
That made Soren smile faintly.
"I think if I tried not to fight it," he said, "I'd end up overthinking how not to."
Rysen let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh. "That sounds about right."
They stood like that for a while longer, the wind carrying their words away almost as soon as they were spoken, leaving space behind them.
Soren shifted his grip on the railing. "It feels… different tonight."
"Different how?"
He searched for the right phrasing. "Not heavier. Just… present. Like it's decided to stay."
Rysen nodded slowly. "Mid-intensity flow," he said. "Once it settles in, it tends to be consistent. Less erratic than the lighter currents."
"You say that like you've memorized its habits."
Rysen shrugged. "You pick things up when you live with them long enough."
Soren considered that.
"I suppose I do the same," he said. "Just… with records instead of weather."
Rysen turned his head slightly, looking at him now. "You always sound like you're underselling what you do."
Soren blinked. "Do I?"
"A bit."
Soren's brows knit faintly. "I don't think of it as something that needs… embellishment."
"I don't mean embellishment," Rysen said. "Just recognition."
The wind tugged gently at Soren's coat, pressing it closer to his side.
"I write things down," Soren said simply. "I make sure they aren't lost."
"That's not nothing."
"I know," Soren replied. "It just… doesn't feel like something to talk about."
Rysen studied him for a moment, then said, "You're allowed to take up space, Soren."
The words landed softer than expected.
Soren didn't respond right away.
Instead, he looked back out at the sky, at the layered darkness above, the way the clouds moved without urgency or resistance.
"I forget that sometimes," he admitted.
Rysen nodded, gaze returning forward. "Most people do."
A stronger gust swept past them then, stirring the hem of Soren's coat and pushing his hair back from his face. The wind was loud again—louder than before—but not uncomfortable. It pressed close, a constant presence that dulled the edges of thought.
"It's strange," Soren said. "How the wind can feel so… full."
"Full?"
"Like it's occupying more than just space," he explained. "It muffles things. Thoughts, worries. Even pain, a little."
Rysen glanced at his ankle briefly, then back to Soren's face. "Does it help?"
"Yes," Soren said without hesitation. "I think it does."
"That's good," Rysen replied. "Just don't let it distract you from the cold."
Soren smiled. "You say that like a warning."
"It is," Rysen said mildly. "You're already limping. You don't need a chill on top of it."
"I'll survive," Soren said. "I've endured worse than cold air."
Rysen's lips curved faintly. "You say that, but you're the same person who forgets to eat when he's focused."
"That is an exaggeration."
"Is it?"
Soren hesitated. "…Perhaps a slight one."
Rysen chuckled quietly, the sound almost lost to the wind.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that—small observations, unhurried responses.
Rysen commented on how the deck crew would likely need to adjust their routes tonight.
Soren mentioned the way sound carried differently when the wind settled like this.
They spoke of nothing urgent, nothing heavy—just shared noticing, quiet companionship.
At one point, Rysen said, "You know, you're easier to talk to than most people."
Soren glanced at him again, surprised. "I am?"
"You listen," Rysen said. "And you don't rush to fill silence."
"I like silence," Soren admitted. "It gives things room to exist."
Rysen nodded. "Exactly."
The wind surged again, louder now, pressing against them like a moving wall. Soren felt it wrap around his thoughts, soften the edges, blanket him in sensation until the world felt distant and close all at once.
It was comfortable.
Too comfortable, perhaps.
"We should head back in," Rysen said after a while. "Before you catch a cold."
Soren nodded. "Yes. Probably wise."
They turned together, moving toward the door.
Soren took one last look at the sky—dark, unreadable, vast—then stepped forward.
Just before crossing the threshold, he took a careful breath.
His foot lifted.
And then—
There it was again.
That low, distant hum.
Not from the Aurelius.
Not from beneath his feet or the walls beside him.
It felt farther than sound should reach—threaded through the horizon itself, vibrating faintly at the edge of awareness. For a split second, it was as if something vast had shifted beyond sight.
Soren's heart skipped.
The sensation was gone almost as soon as it came, swallowed by the interior hum as he stepped fully inside.
He did not stop.
Did not turn back.
But the echo lingered, faint and unresolved, as he walked alongside Rysen into the ship.
_________________________