Owin looked out at the edge of the world, and sighed.

Cloud, his best friend, nuzzled under Owin’s arm. Owin patted his small head, ruffling the fluff behind his ears. “I’m sick of this life, Cloud,” he said, “I don’t give a goat’s head in Gadha who knows it, either.”

Treasonous words. Owin wouldn’t say them to anyone but Cloud. A rainwolf would not rat him out.

But when Cloud was taken in by the barber every few months to be sheared of his bright blue wool, and Owin would have to wait to get him back in a naked, shivering state, a thought crossed the boy’s mind; does Cloud tell the shearers my secrets? Does he wait until I’m out of earshot to spill my heathens’ thoughts to those who will see me dropped?

But those were just thoughts. Cloud couldn’t talk. Even if he could, Owin was sure he wouldn’t break the trust between he and his master.

“But sometimes I wonder,” he continued, “if I would break my trust to you.”

The rainwolf’s eyes were closed, enjoying being pet.

“If, someday, I could see the edge of the world up close, I would. I’d leave the land and do so.”

There was nothing westward but ocean, see. Everyone knew this. The furthest you could go was Ruby Island, but that was close enough to the mainland to not really count. No… Marniko, the enormous port city behind Owin, off the western shore, was the furthest reach of civilization on the Motherland.

If one traveled east from there, they’d first hit the Gray Forest, home to the rainwolves. Covered in wool and colored like the rainbow, rainwolves are far more docile than the northern fur covered wolves of the snow. They take almost as long to age as people, too. Cloud was six years old, but still looked like a pup. When he and Owin met, Owin a mere eight years old and Cloud a newborn, he knew he’d found his greatest friend.

Beyond the Gray Forest the trees got taller and wetter, the land covered in lush flowers and pooling lakes of mud. Varagis and Omizo, some of the furthest eastern city-states, traded the wetland’s gum, fruit, and desert dyes to Marniko for Marniko’s fish, pearls, and lumber.

Not all lumber came from the Gray Forest, though; tall tundra trees pervaded the snowy north. Highwater, Flatsnow, and Rundrop were constantly fighting over their share of wood. Trade routes, as Owin knew from his father, were becoming dangerous; ripe with bandits and ungodly monsters masked as men—who tipped wagons, took goods, and slit throats. Not even the mages of the north could keep up with the conflict.

That’s why Owin had been told to stay in Marniko. His father, a food merchant, traveled often; Owin usually by his side. But these days, northern and middern territories could never seem to get along. Tariffs and taxes invaded life. Greed begot greed. Conflict of a large proportion was brewing. His father figured the only safe place left was Marniko, where “nothing would happen.”

There was a deep forest between the port and all other territories. The southward city-states, like Jo-Det and Cho-Go, had pledged to protect Marniko’s trade routes from invaders (although this union only served to further anger northerners, from what Owin could see).

In truth though, Owin didn’t feel so safe. He was well fed, working as a cook in Drart’s kitchens. He had company, in the form of Cloud and the other cooks. But he wanted more from his life. More than just making food for strangers. Traveling on the routes all those years ago was exciting. Meeting the southerners—people who know the sun better than anyone—was an amazing experience. He made so many friends in Jo-Det. Traveling east was just as fun, with plenty of its own sights to see.

But now all he had was the beach. A beach with nothing beyond it but the end of the world. Funny how confinement warps one’s mind—now he wanted to see it up close like he had seen the cities.

The Great Rift, he thought. Eternity’s Edge. Where the sea stops and drops into the valley of night.

They said anyone who fell off the edge of the world was doomed for eternity. They wouldn’t be sent to Kunalla and live in forever peace above the clouds. They wouldn’t even be sent to Gadha and roil forever in darkness. They would simply vanish, as if The Hooded One came and swept them away.

“Do ye believe it, Cloud?” Owin asked the rainwolf. “Do you believe the end of the world is where sky meets sea?”

Cloud woofed quietly. Then he walked away, reaching the water’s edge. The waves, soft and slow, crept across the sand and washed small crabs back into small holes. Cloud sniffed at one and yapped when it tried to claw him. “I’m not so sure,” Owin said aloud. It was less treasonous to suspect the world’s edge wasn’t an edge, but it would still earn you scorn from those devout enough to pray.

The sun was coming up over the horizon. Crimson light bled into the sky, dyeing the blue with inky pinks that were almost, but not quite, the colors of eastern fruit.

“Is the sun a fruit?” Owin asked aloud again, looking past Cloud’s confrontation with the crab. There are so many things we don’t know, he thought. I wish I could know these things.

Cloud and the crab were continuing their little battle. The crab snapped, Cloud barked, and the two went back and forth. Covered in sand, the little fiend skittered atop the foamy tide, chasing the rainwolf pup with full intentions to clamp him. Owin stood, baggy trousers a bit damp from the sand, flowing blue coat open to let a bit of air grace his black undershirt. He held his satchel close, kicked some pebbles from his boots, and made his way to the crab.

“Oi,” he said. “Cut it out, wont’cha?”

The crab snapped at him. Cloud woofed from afar.

“Back into the water, ye feisty crab!” said Owin. He wound up his leg and punted the sucker into the waves. It crashed over the surface, making a splash that was quickly scuffed by the pervading tide.

“Don’t go borrowing trouble, you hound,” Owin said to Cloud, digging a small treat out of his satchel. The pup took it from his fingers and nibbled like a babe. Both he and Owin loved dried fruits.

“I swear, everytime I come down to look at the yonder I have to save ye. Learn to fight, ye scoot. One day ye’ll have to.”

Cloud munched on the orange, belly in the sand. Owin chuckled to himself and looked back out over the waters. Something was bobbing in the waves, coming to shore.

“Back for more, are ye?” he tested, walking toward the tide. “I kicked ye once, I can do it again.”

But this was no crab—this was something much different. This was a thing Owin had never seen floating in water before. But it was vaguely familiar...

“What…”

Something was strange here.

Owin ran into the waves, soaking his boots and trousers. Cloud barked, sprinting into the wake to follow him. Owin looked back at him and saw the pup treading water where Owin himself was able to stand. The pup’s legs were just too short, and his blue wool coat got soaked, weighing him down.

“Damn ye,” Owin said, picking up him, holding him close. Now his shirt and coat were wet too. He looked back at the shape.

A bottle. A bottle was floating right toward him. “Someone threw a bottle into the sea?” he wondered aloud.

He bent down and picked it up. It was a different shape than normal bottles. The ones he used in cooking were cylindrical, coming up to a neck and topped with a cork. This bottle was square, like a box… and its neck was another little box… but instead of a cork, it had a kind of… hat. That was the only way Owin could describe it. Its surface was faded and worn, salted over from seawater brine and tiny barnacles.

“Ye’ve been in the water a long time, ain’tcha?” Owin said, turning it over. Something was certainly inside—it tipped, rattling within the glass. Owin went to shore, put Cloud down (who promptly shook off the seawater), and tried to pull off the bottle’s little hat.

He tore the end of a nail. Swearing to Gadha, Owin examined his finger for damage. Nothing severe, but it hurt. “This bugger’s got another thing comin,” he said to Cloud, who was looking up at him with a tilted head. Owin tried to pry off the bottle’s lid once more, yet again unsuccessful. A bit frustrated, he sneered, looking over the object with distaste.

“Uh… wait a minute,” he said.

The hat on the bottle wasn’t something he could just lift. It was affixed to grooves molded in the very neck of the thing. Curious, he ran his thumb along the grooves, and realized it likely twisted off.

That was a design he’d have never thought of. He twisted it to the right and only managed to dig it further into his palm. Angry, he twisted to the left, made progress, twisted harder, and popped the hat.

“Ha!”

He peered inside.

There was a sheet of parchment within. Rolled up. He stuck his fingers in the bottle and wrenched it out, dropping the vessel softly in the sand at his feet.

He unraveled the parchment. It was veiny, a rough and coarse material he’d never seen before. Covered in looping black glyphs, it was written in a tongue he knew not. And from the looks of it, the message had been written long, long ago.

“Son,” came a voice from behind. Owin jumped. He turned around, noticing now that Cloud was barking.

A mage, donned in robes of deep purple and a brimmed, pointed hat, was standing just before him. The man was very old, with a silvery beard and fluffy gray eyebrows. “You may want to give that to me, son,” he said.

Owin held it away. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because,” said the mage, getting closer, “that is not of this world.”