The Edge of the World

The midnight watch aboard the merchant galleon *Osprey* was a lonely, freezing endeavor. The ocean was an endless expanse of pitch-black nothingness, churning and frothing as the ship cut through the heavy swells. The wind howled through the rigging, a mournful, biting sound that bit right through the thick wool of Finn’s coat.

Finn, a young sailor barely a year into his enlistment, stood near the foremast, rubbing his numbed hands together. His breath plumed in the freezing air. He liked the quiet of the night watch, the way the vastness of the sea made the world's problems feel remarkably small. But tonight, the air felt overly heavy, thick with an unnatural, suffocating tension that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He turned his gaze toward the ship’s bow to check the horizon, and his heart violently seized in his chest.

There was a shadow standing on the railing.

It was a man, balanced precariously on the narrow, slick wood of the bowsprit, leaning forward into the howling wind. The figure was silhouetted against the faint, silver glow of the hidden moon, but Finn recognized the broad shoulders and the heavy, oilskin coat instantly. It was Silas.

Silas was the *Osprey*’s First Mate. He was a man carved from sea salt and iron, fiercely respected by the crew, known for his unyielding discipline and his sharp, calculating mind. To the rest of the ship, Silas was an untouchable pillar of strength. But right now, standing on the precipice of the churning black abyss, his head bowed and his hands hanging limp at his sides, he looked entirely broken.

Panic, icy and sharp, spiked in Finn’s veins. He knew what this was. He knew the posture of a man who had decided the world was too heavy to carry for another second. He had seen it once before, years ago, on the docks of his home village. He had frozen then. He had turned his back, thinking he should give his older brother space, thinking the dark mood would pass. It hadn't.

Finn forced his boots to move. The wooden deck was slick with sea spray, but he didn't run. He knew that any sudden movement, any shout for help, might be the trigger that sent Silas tumbling into the freezing water below.

Slowly, deliberately, Finn stepped out of the shadows of the foremast. He didn't sound the alarm. Instead, he walked toward the bow, his hands empty, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"It's a cold night for balancing, sir," Finn said.

He pitched his voice to carry over the roaring waves, keeping it remarkably soft and steady, devoid of the terror seizing his lungs.

Silas flinched. His broad shoulders went completely rigid. He didn't turn around, but his head snapped up, staring out at the unforgiving horizon.