By noon, whispers had begun to ripple through the lower docks. Fishermen returning from the morning tides spoke of their magnetic needles spinning wildly, drifting toward a void where the South Light had guided ships for generations.
"You must seal the lower halls, Corin," Elder Maren whispered, her trembling hands resting on the obsidian council table. Her eyes were milky with age, but her mind remained as sharp as an engraver's burin. "If the people discover that the borders of the world are unraveling, the panic will consume Oakhaven before the sea does."
"Sealing the doors will not preserve the land, Elder," Corin replied, unrolling a blank calfskin sheet across the mahogany desk. "Whatever is eroding the charts is doing so from the outer margins inward. Look here—the Cape of Torment is already fading. The silver ink is flaking like dried leaves."
He dipped a raven quill into a vial of fresh midnight ink. "I am chartering the Astrid at midnight tide. If the world is vanishing, someone must sail to the edge and map what is replacing it."