Dragonmount, where the Dragon had died-and with him, some said, the Age of Legends-where prophecy said he would be born again. North and east the wind blew beneath early morning sun, over endless miles of rolling grass and far-scattered thickets, across the swift-flowing River Luan, past the broken-topped fang of Dragonmount, mountain of legend towering above the slow swells of the rolling plain, looming so high that clouds wreathed it less than halfway to the smoking peak. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose on the great plain called the Caralain Grass. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend.
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