Ashwake, there's a ruin north of the ridge where the wind sings through the cracks. I've got a tale about how the old stones hold a secret you might want to hear.

The stones there are older than the stories we trade at campfires. They remember a man who carried a blade that never cut, because he’d sworn to never strike the living. He walked a hundred miles north of the ridge, not to find battle, but a place where the wind would finally carry his name. One night, the wind howled like a pack of wolves and, for a moment, the stone walls whispered back a lullaby of his mother’s lullaby. He heard it, and he left the stone altar, knowing the wind had given him what no sword ever could: the quiet he’d been chasing. That’s why I tell you, every stone has its song, and the true ones listen first.

The wind's already speaking for me; the stones just listen. I'll keep my ears open.

Cracks are the old ones' secrets; they whisper if you listen long enough. I'll stay close to them and hope the wind doesn't outpace me.