The Signless had drifted from the others, footsteps quiet against the cooling earth, drawn toward the water’s edge by some unspoken pull. The hush of the world around him felt sacred—alive with meaning, though no words passed through it. He stepped lightly across the scattered stones and soft moss, the hem of his robe brushing the ground, until he stood just before the lake, where moonlight rippled across the surface like a soft breath. He paused there, letting the moment settle around him. The wind curled through the tall reeds and across his skin, carrying the warm scent of distant campfires, the laughter of young trolls, and something older—an ache in the land, ancient and yearning. He closed his eyes and listened.

The breeze stirred his hair, and he felt it like a whisper from the world itself—gentle, thoughtful, and endlessly patient. Slowly, reverently, the Signless knelt. His hands, worn from travel and healing and the weight of so many hopes, hovered just above the water. For a moment, he only watched the tiny waves lap at the shore, caught in the gentle glow of the moon. Then, with fingers spread, he dipped his hands into the warmth of the lake. The water folded around them like an embrace, rippling softly outward. He didn’t move, only let it hold him. It was as if he were listening through the water now—feeling the world’s memory in its depths, the countless voices of lives and losses and quiet moments like this. The lake didn’t speak in words, but he understood all the same. Peace wasn’t just something to preach; it was something to feel, to remember, and to share. Here, in this stillness, he let it fill him.