The first light of dawn painted the ridge in cool shades of lavender and rose. Aiman stood on the edge of a rocky outcrop that overlooked Windstead, his small frame bathed in the soft glow of morning. Below him, the village's palm thatches looked fragile—tiny islands in a sea of green. Beyond, rolling dunes stretched toward the horizon, where a distant mountain range rose like silent sentinels against the sky.
He inhaled deeply, tasting the damp earth and the tang of sea salt carried on the breeze. At his feet, the Gale Sage had arranged a simple breakfast of sweet rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves. Steam curled from a small kettle of ginger tea, sending wisps of warmth into the cool air.
Aiman traced the craggy edge with his eyes, remembering the night's lullaby—how he'd steadied himself by finding stillness. Today, though, the wind felt restless, as though it carried a message meant for both of them.
"Come," said the Gale Sage, voice soft but insistent. He patted a flat stone beside him, inviting Aiman to sit. The Sage's robes billowed gently, catching a silent breeze that teased the cliff's edge.
Aiman joined him, dipping a rice cake into the tea's steam. The ginger scent warmed him from the inside. He glanced toward the village—a cluster of huts that seemed to sleep peacefully, unaware of the currents stirring beyond.
The Sage leaned forward, as if listening to a conversation only he could hear. After a moment, he spoke quietly, "Do you feel it?"
Aiman followed his gaze—past Windstead, past the fields, to where the dunes met the mountains. In that vast distance, he sensed a swirl of air darker than the gentle dawn wind. "Yes," he said. "It's faint, but I feel… tension."
The Sage nodded. "A ley disturbance has formed beyond the dunes—it spreads south toward the Verdant Labyrinth. Druids report smoke on the horizon. Fires that do not burn themselves out, as if stoked by something… unnatural." He folded his hands in his lap. "The wind carries news of turmoil there."
Aiman's chest tightened. He thought of the orchard's wolves, guided gently away, and the temple basin, stilled by his breath. But this—this was something larger than Windstead's boundaries. "How bad is it?" he asked, voice low.
The Sage let out a slow breath. "Strong enough that the druids fear they cannot contain it alone. They need an ally who can shape both wind and purpose." He turned to Aiman, eyes bright in the dawn light. "I have taught you to ride updrafts and shepherd wolves. Soon, you must guide winds over realms, not just orchards."
Aiman's heart pounded with equal parts excitement and fear. He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. "I—I don't know if I'm ready."
The Sage reached out, resting a weathered hand on Aiman's shoulder. "None of us are ever truly ready. But you have learned to listen—demonstrated compassion with your gusts. Strength grows from every trial."
Below, a rooster crowed from the village blacksmith's yard. Aiman closed his eyes, recalling the moment he hovered above Windstead—staff tapping a steady pattern in the air. He had felt powerful then, but also vulnerable: an exposing of his soul to every neighbor's gaze.
"Tomorrow," the Sage continued, "we journey westward across the desert toward the Verdant Labyrinth's edge. The druids await guidance—wind that can suffocate wildfires and cool the land until balance returns." He fell silent, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
Aiman nodded slowly, brushing rice crumbs from his lap. "I will go," he said, conviction catching in his throat. "But… when we reach the jungle, the wind there will be different: damp, heavy, unpredictable."
The Sage smiled, a soft curve of approval. "You have already felt the difference between desert gusts and orchard breezes. The jungle's wind is alive, full of whispers. You will learn to dance with it, as you have learned to dance on the cliff's edge."
Aiman rose, wrapping his staff in both hands. Below, the village stirred—figures emerging from huts, planks shifting under feet, livestock beginning their morning routines. He felt the quiet presence of every eye turning skyward, hoping he would again guide the unseen.
He inhaled, letting the early breeze wrap around him. Though fear still fluttered in his chest, he felt something stronger: purpose. Beyond Windstead lay dunes and jungles, serpents of fire and shadow. He might be small, but he carried the wind within him—an inheritance older than any path he might walk.
As they gathered their sparse provisions—simple bread, dried fruits, a waterskin—Aiman glanced once more at Windstead: a bright gem set between sea and dunes. The memory of villagers' hushed praise mingled with wary glances. He offered a silent promise—to protect them, and every place the wind whispered his name.
The Gale Sage raised his staff, and together, they stepped from the plateau, the first soft rays of dawn touching their backs. Aiman felt the wind at his feet, eager to lift him forward—toward challenges he had only imagined, and toward a destiny that would shape not merely a village, but the very currents of the world.