Later, Arthur stood at the bow, alone.
They had seen it in his posture, in the way his hands lingered too long against the rail, in the stillness of his eyes. No one pressed. Not Fedlimid, not Melite. Not Lyn.
They'd grown used to the way he didn't sleep.
A breeze that didn't exist stirred his coat. It wasn't cold. Not here. The dome held the chill at bay, held everything at bay, except thought.
He let his eyes drift forward, where the world curved into unknowns. The horizon didn't end. It never did. Even as Neramor's Shell awaited them, even as the coordinates burned quietly into the back of his mind, there was always more beyond. Always a further silence. A deeper dark.
He could still feel the breath of the core behind him, thrumming low through the bones of the ship. A rhythm grafted now to his own. Not one he'd asked for, but one he had carved. It steadied the vessel. It carried them forward.
It did not steady him.
