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.

"You must leave," Moiraine commanded, her voice a calm anchor in the chaos. "The Dark One's eyes are on this valley. If you stay, everyone you love will die. If you come with me, you may yet save them."

From the towers of Tar Valon to the wastes of the Aiel, the Dragon would be broken and reborn. The Last Battle, Tarmon Gai’don, loomed on the horizon like a gathering storm.

"The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," Tam murmured, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword—a heron-marked blade that Rand had never seen him carry before.

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 in the Mountains of Mist.