The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose along the summit of the mountain. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

Down the great slope of the vast Dragonmount the wind gusted across the landscape. The fields, white with snow, were scarcely disturbed by this unnatural wind. There was a foul smell to it, like the rot and decay of thousands of bodies piled together, and the sound it made was enough to send shivers down anyone's spine. It was as though someone was crying out in anger and hatred at the world and his voice took on the form of a wind. Many strange things had been occurring lately, a sign of a weakening of the seals on the Dark One's prison.