They say the wind speaks,
but can you hear their whispers?
The trees carry the voices of those forgotten to us,
but do we hear them?
As purple mist rolls down the mountainsides,
I hear it.

Words of Gizem, thunderous and raspy, like stone.
A voice I once regarded with love and friendship now holds the bitter taste of wounds covered yet not healed.

“The world will be bent to its knees,
Mine! Mine for the taking.”
The cackles roll away, leaving nothing but the quiet whispers of the wind.

I must help him!
Gizem was once my treasured friend.
I must go and see Ian at the chicken village.