Ages come and pass, until the memories they leave behind fade like the morning mist—until tales harden into legend, and legends crumble into forgotten dust, as fleeting as a breath upon the mountains. Yet still the mist returns, as do the ages, and the wind moves ever on. Only the watchers remain, bound to gaze upon the endless turning, slaves to a cycle without mercy, without end.

There is no beginning, and there is no ending. Yet the historians of the ivory towers of Velunor, the sacred worms beneath the White Shore, the blind prophets of Takmar, the sleeping dragon of Mount Makhroob, and all who possessed even a spark of insight, knew this wind was not as those before. The morning mist carried the scent of an ending unforeseen, and the voice of the breeze among the dead forests spoke with a strange and heavy tone.

Thus it may be whispered, not as prophecy nor as truth, but as shadow of both: this wind carries an ending.

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