The knock came softly at first.
Not tentative, but careful—measured in the way one knocks when uncertain whether the person on the other side is awake or asleep, well or unwell. The sound threaded its way into Soren's awareness slowly, filtered through layers of heat and pressure and the heavy cocoon of the blanket drawn tight around him.
He did not open his eyes.
For a moment, the knock felt like part of the ship itself—another muted sound folded into the Aurelius's constant hum, another vibration passing harmlessly through him. His body was warm, too warm, the heat pooled beneath his skin in a way that made movement feel unnecessary, even unwelcome. The blanket was wrapped high around his shoulders, its weight pressing close, holding him in place.
Another knock followed.
Slightly firmer.
Soren's brow knit faintly.
Consciousness returned in increments rather than all at once. First the heat. Then the ache behind his eyes, dull and persistent. Then the sense that time had moved forward without him noticing—enough that the quality of light in the room no longer matched his last clear memory.
He forced his eyes open.
The room swam briefly, edges blurring before pulling back into something resembling focus. The light was dimmer than before, no longer the pale wash of late afternoon but something warmer—yellowed, subdued, angled. Evening, then. Or close to it. The window panel confirmed as much: the sky beyond was clouded and uneven, rain streaking downward in long, silvery lines, broken here and there by dull gaps where muted rays of gold filtered through.
The rain had not stopped.
It had paused—briefly, intermittently—but never fully ceased. It clung to the day, threading itself through every hour until it no longer felt like weather so much as atmosphere.
Another knock.
Closer now.
Soren inhaled slowly, then again, drawing deeper breaths until the pressure behind his eyes eased just enough for him to move. His body protested immediately. Not sharply—no pain, no sudden weakness—but with a sluggish resistance that made even the simple act of shifting beneath the blanket feel laborious.
Stay awake, he told himself.
Just long enough.
He pushed the covers down and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The world tilted.
For a heartbeat, everything spun—the room, the light, the rain-streaked window blurring into a smear of motion and color. His hand shot out on instinct, fingers digging into the edge of the mattress as he anchored himself there, breathing carefully until the dizziness receded.
It passed.
Not completely—but enough.
Soren straightened slowly, standing with deliberate care. His legs held, though the weight in them felt unfamiliar, as though gravity had subtly increased while he slept. He took another breath, deeper this time, and felt clarity return in increments—vision sharpening, the room settling back into place.
The knock came again.
More insistent now, but not impatient.
"I'm coming," Soren called, his voice rougher than he expected, sore at the edges.
He moved toward the door with measured steps, each one placed with intention rather than habit. The distance felt longer than it should have been, the air in the room thick and unmoving, warm in a way that clung to him even as he walked.
He reached the door and keyed it open.
Cold air rushed in immediately.
It slipped past him in a low sweep, curling around his ankles and brushing against his skin with enough contrast that he felt it all at once—a sharp, grounding cool that made him blink. The corridor beyond was dimmer than usual, its lights softened by the evening cycle and the persistent rain pressing against the hull.
Nell stood just outside.
She held a tray in both hands, balanced carefully against her hip. Simple food—light, easy to eat. A sandwich wrapped neatly, a covered bowl set beside it. Her expression shifted the moment she saw him, concern overtaking whatever neutral composure she'd been holding onto.
"Soren," she said quietly.
Her eyes flicked over him—his posture, the faint pallor beneath his skin, the way he leaned just slightly into the doorframe without realizing it.
"You don't look good," she added, then hesitated. "Should I call for Rysen?"
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Soren almost nodded.
The impulse came unbidden, immediate. Yes, part of him thought. That would be easier. That would make sense. Rysen would notice what he hadn't. He always did.
But another thought followed close behind—fragmented, sluggish, but persistent. Rysen was due to check on him later. The drip had helped. The heat had eased, hadn't it? He could eat, take his medication afterward, rest properly. Surely that would be enough.
He shook his head instead.
"No," he said, the word rasping slightly. "He'll come by later. Thank you—for the meal."
He reached for the tray, fingers brushing Nell's briefly as he took it from her. The contact was light, fleeting, but she didn't move away immediately.
She lingered.
"Are you sure?" Nell asked, her voice lowering. "I could stop by the medical bay before going back to work."
Soren hesitated.
Up close, he could see the tiredness etched into her features—the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just slightly as though the day had taken more out of her than she was willing to admit. The Aurelius had been quiet, yes—but quiet did not mean easy.
"It's alright," he said finally. "I'll eat, take the medicine after. If anything changes, I'll call Rysen. Thank you, Nell."
Something in her expression softened then.
Not relief—concern did not vanish that easily—but acceptance. She nodded once, slowly.
"Okay," she said. "Rest. And if anything changes—if your condition worsens—you call. Anyone. And I mean it."
The firmness in her tone contrasted with the worry in her eyes, and Soren found himself smiling despite the strain tugging at his temples.
"Yes," he replied.
That seemed to satisfy her.
Nell stepped back, giving him space, then turned to leave. She paused once more at the end of the corridor, glancing back as though to commit the sight of him standing there to memory, before disappearing around the bend.
Soren closed the door.
The room sealed itself again, the corridor's cooler air lingering only briefly before the warmth reclaimed its place. The effort of the interaction settled heavily behind his eyes, but the clarity it had forced into him remained—a thin, fragile focus that felt hard-won.
He turned back toward the bed.
Each step was slower now, his body demanding care in a way it hadn't before. He set the tray down carefully and sat, letting the mattress adjust beneath his weight. The food smelled faintly of warmth and familiarity, uncomplicated in a way he appreciated.
He reached for the slate beside him and tapped it awake.
6:20.
Early evening.
The light in the room matched it—the soft, angled glow filtering through the window panel, the sky beyond clouded but uneven. Rain continued to streak downward, but here and there the clouds thinned just enough to let dull yellow rays break through, illuminating the interior in soft bands that stretched across the floor and bed.
It was almost peaceful.
Soren picked up the sandwich and ate slowly.
Too slowly, perhaps—but deliberately. Each bite required focus, the act of chewing and swallowing grounding him in the present. The soup followed, a few careful spoonfuls taken between pauses to breathe, to rest his hands when the weight returned to them.
Outside, the rain persisted.
Inside, the Aurelius hummed steadily beneath it all, carrying the day forward whether he was ready for it or not.
For now, Soren ate.
__________________________
Soren did not finish the meal.
He ate slowly—too slowly, really—each movement deliberate to the point of strain. The sandwich rested half-eaten on the tray, the soup cooled gradually at his side, steam thinning until it vanished altogether. Hunger did not press him the way it should have. Instead, there was only a dull awareness of food, of necessity rather than desire, as though eating were something he remembered needing to do rather than something his body actively requested.
After a while, he stopped trying.
He set the tray aside carefully, pushing it just far enough that it wouldn't tip if he shifted. He told himself he would come back to it later. When hunger returned. When the heaviness lifted.
If.
The thought lingered longer than he liked.
Soren reached for the blister pack on the bedside table—the medication Peony had given him the night before. The plastic crinkled softly beneath his fingers, the sound oddly loud in the stillness of the room. He pressed one tablet free and held it in his palm for a moment, studying it without quite knowing why.
Routine, he reminded himself.
Medicine first. Then rest.
He swallowed it with a mouthful of water, the tablet sticking briefly before going down. The coolness helped, marginally. It did nothing for the heat still coiled beneath his skin, but it soothed his throat, eased the faint tightness there.
For a moment, he considered bathing.
The idea came unprompted—a cool shower, water rinsing away the lingering warmth, clearing his head the way it sometimes did after long days. The image was vivid enough that he almost stood immediately.
Then the thought of cold water followed.
The shock of it.
His stomach turned faintly.
The idea of standing beneath a stream of cold—of letting it hit his overheated skin, of enduring that sharp contrast—felt suddenly unbearable. His body recoiled from the thought before his mind could reason with it, a visceral rejection that surprised him with its intensity.
Still—
He stood.
The movement was slower than before, but steadier. His vision held this time, the room remaining upright and whole as he straightened. The heaviness was still there, wrapped around his limbs like an extra layer he couldn't shed, but it no longer threatened to pull him under.
He moved toward the wash with careful steps.
The air felt different now—softer, almost. Too soft. As though the room had padded itself around him, muting edges that should have been sharper. The hum of the Aurelius threaded through it all, steady and low, but even that felt slightly distant, filtered.
He turned on the shower.
The sound of water filled the small space immediately, louder here than anywhere else, echoing faintly off the walls. He adjusted the temperature until it was cool—but not cold. The compromise felt necessary. Anything more extreme might have undone him entirely.
When he stepped beneath it, he sucked in a breath despite himself.
The water clung to his skin rather than running cleanly off, soaking in too quickly, as though his body were eager for it even as it resisted the sensation. He stood there longer than he intended, eyes closed, letting the water press against him, letting the constant sound drown out the low thrum in his head.
The heat receded slightly.
Not gone—but muted.
When he finished, he dried off carefully and dressed again, choosing lighter layers this time, fabric that wouldn't trap warmth as easily. The motions were familiar, comforting in their predictability. For a brief moment, he felt almost normal.
Almost.
He returned to the bed and sat, breath measured, waiting for the faint fog at the edges of his vision to clear completely. It did, slowly, leaving behind a weariness that felt deeper than muscle or bone.
That was when he noticed the ledger.
It lay beside him, exactly where it always was.
The sight of it stirred something sharp and unexpected in his chest—not pain, not fear, but a sudden, uneasy awareness. Two days, he realized. It had been two days since he last wrote.
He told himself it didn't matter. He had been unwell. Routine had been disrupted. There were reasonable explanations for the gap.
Still—
He picked it up.
The leather was warm beneath his fingers, softer than he remembered. He opened it carefully, as though expecting resistance, and began to read.
At first, nothing seemed amiss.
Familiar entries. Familiar cadence. Observations noted in his own hand, careful and precise. The comfort of recognition settled over him, easing some of the tension he hadn't realized he was carrying.
Then—
He frowned.
A word caught his attention.
He read the sentence again, slower this time.
Rhythm of—
The word sat there, neat and deliberate, written in his hand—and yet it felt wrong. Not incorrect, exactly, but premature. As though it belonged to a later thought, a later understanding he did not yet possess.
He flipped back a page.
Then another.
More discrepancies revealed themselves, subtle but undeniable. Turns of phrase he didn't remember using. Observations phrased in ways that felt adjacent to his voice, but not quite aligned with it. The handwriting was his—there was no doubt about that—but the intent behind some of the words felt… shifted.
Did he write this?
The question struck deeper than it should have.
A chill traced its way down his spine, sharp and unwelcome. His grip tightened on the ledger, knuckles whitening as he flipped through more pages, faster now, searching for something he couldn't name.
There.
Another entry.
The wording prickled against his awareness, setting his thoughts on edge. Not wrong. Not inaccurate.
Just—early.
Not yet, his mind supplied, unbidden.
The realization landed with unsettling clarity.
Soren closed his eyes.
No.
Not now.
This wasn't the time for this.
His heart thudded heavily in his chest, the rhythm uneven for just a moment before settling again. He could feel the heat rising once more, creeping back toward his temples, his throat.
He snapped the ledger shut.
The sound echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room.
"I'll look later," he murmured, though no one was there to hear it. "When I'm better."
He set the ledger aside and lay back, pulling the blanket up around himself. The warmth was immediate, enveloping, almost too much—but he welcomed it now, clinging to the familiar weight as though it might anchor him.
Rest, he told himself.
Just rest.
The edges of his vision blurred slightly, not enough to alarm him, but enough to remind him how close he still was to the brink of exhaustion. His thoughts slowed, drifting without direction, the earlier unease folding inward rather than dissipating.
He did not feel better.
Not truly.
And the realization settled heavily in his chest, unwelcome and inescapable.
_________________________
His body no longer felt like his own.
The sensation crept in gradually at first—subtle enough that he almost missed it. Not pain. Not panic. Just a quiet dissonance, as though the signals between thought and movement had grown delayed, distorted. As though he were operating himself through layers of something thick and unyielding.
He lay still beneath the blanket, warmth pressing close from all sides.
Too close.
The air felt heavy in his lungs, each breath requiring more effort than the last. In and out. Slow. Careful. He focused on the rhythm, grounding himself in the simple mechanics of it, but even that began to slip—his breaths lengthening unevenly, pauses stretching longer than he intended.
The room blurred at the edges.
Not spinning. Not collapsing.
Just… softening.
As though reality itself had decided to lose definition.
His thoughts followed suit.
They came in fragments now, unanchored impressions drifting in and out of awareness without sequence or context. A sense of motion without movement. Weightlessness paired with pressure. The sensation of being suspended somewhere between waking and sleep, caught in a state where neither fully claimed him.
He felt like he was forgetting something.
The realization surfaced abruptly, cutting through the haze with just enough clarity to startle him. Not a specific memory—nothing so concrete—but the fact of forgetting itself. As though something important hovered just beyond reach, slipping away faster the more he tried to grasp it.
Soren frowned faintly.
His mind reached outward, searching.
What was it?
The effort cost him.
Images flickered behind his closed eyes, disjointed and incomplete. A corridor stretched too long, its curvature wrong, bending in on itself in a way that defied the Aurelius's usual geometry. Lights dimmed, then dimmed further, until shadow swallowed the space entirely.
A door.
Opening—or closing.
He couldn't tell which.
The scene fractured before it could settle, dissolving into something else entirely—shapes blurring, sound thinning, the sensation of movement without direction.
He exhaled, the breath catching halfway out.
Something tightened around his throat—not constricting, not painful, but present. Heat surged upward again, blooming behind his eyes, pressing against the inside of his skull until it felt too full, too crowded.
He shifted beneath the blanket, instinctively seeking relief.
His body did not respond.
The disconnect startled him.
He tried again, focusing deliberately this time—commanding his arm to move, his fingers to curl, his shoulders to adjust. The instruction traveled outward… and stalled.
Nothing happened.
A faint pulse of alarm surfaced then, distant and dulled by the fog wrapping around his thoughts. Not panic. Not yet. Just the awareness that something was wrong in a way he could no longer compensate for.
Soren drew in a breath.
It came shallow.
Another followed, slower, heavier.
He tried to open his eyes.
They fluttered, resisted, then parted just enough to let light bleed through.
The room looked wrong.
Not unfamiliar—just distorted. The ceiling seemed farther away than it should have been, edges blurring into one another. Shadows pooled in corners that hadn't been there before, the glow from the window panel dimmed to a muted wash of gold and grey.
Rain traced its endless path beyond the glass, streaks elongating unnaturally as his focus slipped in and out.
He blinked.
The effort felt monumental.
Stay awake, he told himself.
The thought barely registered before slipping away.
A sound cut through the haze.
Knocking.
At first, it felt unreal—another imagined sensation folded into the chaos of half-formed thoughts and drifting images. The sound faded almost as soon as it appeared, swallowed by the hum beneath it.
Then it came again.
Louder.
Sharper.
KNOCK.
His awareness jolted, snapping briefly into focus.
Someone was at the door.
The realization anchored him, just enough.
KNOCK.
"K—" He tried to speak, but the sound died in his throat, reduced to something breathless and incomplete.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
The rhythm quickened, urgency bleeding through restraint.
"Soren?" a voice called.
Rysen.
The name landed with surprising weight, cutting through the fog like a blade through mist. Recognition flared—bright, fleeting—and with it came something like relief.
He tried to respond.
Nothing came.
His chest tightened, breath hitching as he gathered what little strength he had left and tried again—this time not with words, but with movement. He forced his arms to obey, pushing against the mattress as he attempted to sit up.
The world tilted violently.
He managed only a fraction of the motion before gravity seemed to give up on him entirely, his balance collapsing inward. He slumped forward instead, muscles trembling under the strain.
The door slid open.
Cool air rushed in, brushing against his overheated skin in a sudden, shocking wave. The contrast sent a shiver through him, sharp enough that he felt it even through the haze.
"Soren," Rysen said again, closer now.
Footsteps crossed the room quickly.
Soren's vision swam, but he could make out the shape of him—Rysen's familiar frame silhouetted against the corridor light, posture taut with something dangerously close to panic.
"Are you still in?" Rysen asked.
Not a greeting.
A check.
Soren tried to answer.
He couldn't.
The effort sent another surge of heat through him, clamping down on his throat, stealing what little air he had managed to draw in. His body felt unbearably heavy now, limbs unresponsive, every muscle refusing to cooperate.
So he did the only thing he could.
He nodded.
The motion was slow. Incomplete. Barely perceptible.
But Rysen saw it.
Something left Rysen's expression then—some last remnant of restraint or hope. His jaw tightened as he crossed the remaining distance and reached for Soren, one hand gripping his arm firmly, grounding him in place.
"That's enough," Rysen said, voice low and controlled. "Don't move."
Guilt flared weakly in Soren's chest.
He was supposed to call.
He knew that. Rysen had told him—anything changes, anything at all. The memory surfaced dimly, accompanied by the faint, unwelcome realization that he had crossed that threshold without noticing.
"Sorry," he tried to say.
The word didn't make it past his lips.
Rysen shook his head, as though he'd heard it anyway. "No," he said. "Don't. Save your strength."
He shifted his grip, sliding one arm behind Soren's back and the other beneath his knees.
The movement was immediate and decisive.
Soren's body lifted effortlessly, cradled against Rysen's chest. The sudden change in position sent another wave of dizziness through him, but Rysen adjusted instinctively, holding him closer, more securely.
"We're going to medical," Rysen said, already moving toward the door. "Right now."
Soren's head lolled against Rysen's shoulder, the fabric cool against his flushed skin. He could feel Rysen's heart racing beneath him, fast and steady and real—a sharp contrast to the disordered rhythm pounding in his own ears.
The corridor rushed past in blurred streaks of light and shadow.
Wind brushed against him again as Rysen broke into a hurried stride, the cool air momentarily piercing through the haze. The sensation grounded him for a heartbeat—enough that he became acutely aware of everything at once.
The heat.
The weight.
The way his body refused to respond.
And Rysen's grip—unyielding, protective, unwilling to let him slip any further.
The world narrowed.
Sound faded first, the hum of the Aurelius dissolving into a distant echo. Then light followed, vision dimming until only vague impressions remained—motion without detail, presence without form.
Soren exhaled.
The breath left him shallow and incomplete.
And then—
Nothing.
_________________________