The wind, a relentless nomad, forever danced through the jagged teeth of the Whispering Walls. These weren't mere cliffs; they were titans of stone, carved by time and shrouded in an aura of ancient mystery.

Legends, passed down through generations in hushed tones around crackling fires, spoke of an intricate network of caverns within these walls, a labyrinthine heart pulsing with a hidden power. The village, nestled like a sleepy child in the cradle of the valley below, knew these stories well.

They were a constant murmur, a reminder of a fragile peace, a whisper against the symphony of crickets and chirping birds that filled their days. The whispers spoke of the Shadows, malignant entities that lurked within the walls, their very existence a threat to the slumbering power they so desperately coveted.

But for generations, these whispers remained a bedtime story, a warning passed down with a nudge and a wink, a cautionary tale more myth than reality. The villagers lived simple lives, content with the rhythm of the seasons and the familiar faces that surrounded them.

The Whispering Walls were a constant presence, yet distant, their jagged profile a silhouette against the changing hues of the sky. Then one day, the wind changed.

It no longer carried the gentle song of the valley, but a mournful howl, a chilling melody that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the mountain itself. The whispers, once faint murmurs carried on the night breeze, grew louder, a chilling crescendo that spoke of a prophecy unfolding.

. .