The docks of Neverwinter always moved. Even at dawn, even during storms, even on that one memorable morning when half the harbor froze solid for seven breaths because some apprentice illusionist sneezed on a ritual circle — even then, the docks moved. But not today. Today, the docks held their breath. Finn Gatherwell sat on the edge of a bollard, boots dangling above still water that reflected nothing correctly. The surface looked normal at first glance, but the color was wrong — too smooth, too dark, like ink pretending to be sea. Birds circled overhead, confused. Gulls usually dove this time of morning, screaming their triumph as they carried wriggling silver prizes away. This morning, they only hovered. The first fisherman approached Finn with the posture of a man whose entire profession had just betrayed him. “You’re one of them gatherin’ lads, aye?” he asked. “Can you gather… fish-advice?” Finn winced. “Not exactly.” “Sea’s broken,” the man said flatly. “Fish’re stayin’ down.” Finn leaned closer. The water didn’t ripple. That was wrong. Very wrong. Behind him: heavy boots. Irongut Anvilfoot stomped across the pier with the energy of a dwarf expecting breakfast. “Finn. Please tell me there’s fish.” “There are no fish.” Irongut blinked. “Try again.” “None,” Finn repeated. “Not one. The sea has… paused.” Irongut squinted into the water. Then gasped. “Finn. That water is looking at me.” Finn frowned—until he saw them. Runes. Pale and drifting beneath the surface like jellyfish, moving in deliberate circles. Finn’s stomach dropped. “I’ve seen those in dreams Savras showed me. They mark places where the future refuses to be predicted.” “Sounds bad,” Irongut muttered. Bootsteps again. Confident ones. Durnan Oreseek strode up, geological scowl already forming. “Heard the fish quit,” he said. “Stone doesn’t like that.” “The stone beneath the *water?*” Finn asked. “Stone’s stone,” Durnan replied. “Sea-floor’s grumbling.” He knelt, hand on the dock. “Feels like the bedrock’s humming.” One rune brightened. The water flexed. The dock shuddered. All the gulls scattered. Irongut clutched Finn’s shoulder. “Nope. Nope, that’s the sound of something deciding if we’re lunch or guests.” “It’s not a creature,” Finn whispered. “It’s a message.” The water bulged outward like an eye dilating. Dead fish surfaced. Then more. Fifteen in total, forming a perfect rune-circle. Irongut stared. “The fish are… spell componentin’ themselves?” “No,” Finn whispered. “Something below used their bodies to draw a sigil.” The circle parted. Something massive shifted beneath them—pressing its awareness against Finn’s mind like a hand testing a fruit for ripeness. Then— Nothing. Water normal. Birds resumed. A net pulled up a perfectly ordinary trout. The runes vanished. Irongut exhaled. “Well. That’s sorted.” Finn shook his head. “No… that was a test.” Durnan nodded. “Aye. And we passed.” Finn looked out over the suddenly-ordinary sea. “No,” he whispered. “We were measured.” Later, in the Ledger, the Soul Bearer wrote: > The sea blinked. The city did not notice. > Three dwarves and a dreamer did. > When water learns to think, stone will remember the lesson.