The village council hut was quiet at dusk, though windows and doorways stood wide open to admit the lingering daylight. Flickering oil lamps sat on rough‐hewn tables, casting long, wavering shadows across the bamboo walls. Outside, a gentle breeze teased the palm fronds, rustling them against the fading sky.
Inside, a group of elders had gathered in semi‐darkness, their faces lined with concern. They sat on low stools arranged in a loose circle, voices hushed but urgent. Aiman—wrapped snugly in his mother's arms—watched them curiously from the nearest corner of the room. Though he was still only two, he could sense the tension in the air: heavy, curious, with a dash of worry.
His mother, Faridah, knelt beside his father, Amir, who hovered protectively at her shoulder. Both of them tried to meet each other's eyes, offering quiet reassurance. Aiman reached out and touched his mother's chin, making her look down at him. He gave her a small, open‐mouthed smile as though to say, It's all right—the wind is my friend. She stroked his cheek gently and patted his soft cheek.
The tallest elder—a stooped man named Ibrahim, who claimed he could sense the wind's secrets—cleared his throat. His voice wavered slightly: "The child… he's not like any other. First, he saved that boy in the square. Now, just yesterday, he pulled a net from the well with hardly any effort. We must decide: is he a blessing or a curse?"
Another elder, Misra, raised a gnarled finger. "I saw a spiraling breeze around his hands. Nothing merely mortal forms such a wind at will, especially from a toddler." Her voice was soft but steady. "If he cannot learn control, that wind could bring ruin. Distant storms, collapsed roofs… even worse."
A third elder, Rahim, stroked his white beard. "But what if he is the Stormborn we prophesied? Someone meant to guide Windstead through the monsoon's fury—someone the village might need when waters rise and crops fail." He leaned forward. "We mustn't send him away in fear. It's better to teach him here, under our watch."
Faridah's fingers tightened around Aiman's shoulder. He could feel her grip, fierce with maternal protectiveness, but also her breathing, calm and measured—her silent way of reminding him that even though elders talked in low tongues, he was safe.
Amir rose from his stool and took a hesitant step forward. "Ibrahim, Rahim, Misra—I appreciate your counsel. But Aiman is my son. He was born with this—" He paused, running a hand through his damp hair. "This wind inside him. I will not send him away. Not now, not ever. We need to learn how to guide it together."
Ibrahim nodded slowly, head bowed. "Your son has a gift, Amir—no question. But gifts can become burdens if left unshaped. You'll teach him?"
Amir glanced at Faridah, who nodded in turn. He looked back at the elders. "We will."
There was a murmur of assent, though not everyone looked satisfied.
Misra rubbed her temples. "Then we must arrange for a teacher—someone who understands the wind's ways better than any of us."
Just then, a creaking hush passed through the doorway. Footsteps sloshed on the wet ground outside, and everyone's heads turned. A lanky figure entered the hut, the hem of his brown, wind‐fringed robes damp from recent rain. His staff—twisted wood etched with subtle whirlwind symbols—thumped against the floor.
Finally, eyes fixed on Aiman's mother and father, the figure inclined his head. "I have come," he said quietly, voice softened by years spent in gusting gales. "I feel the boy's bond with wind—powerful, unsteady, yearning to be guided." He dropped the end of his staff beside him, shoulders unknotting with relief. "I am the Gale Sage. I will teach this child to step beside the wind, not be swept away by it."
A hush followed his words. Faridah clutched Aiman tighter, and Amir gave a curt nod.
Rahim studied the Sage's staff, tracing the carved glyphs with a gray fingertip. "We welcome your guidance."
Misra folded her shawl over her arm. "But talk is not enough. We must see that this boy is trained—immediately. If the wind grows beyond his control, the village could suffer."
The Sage met Misra's gaze. "He must learn patience more than power. His wind—strong though it is—will break if he tries to command it too soon. Step by step, we will guide him."
Aiman, who had been quiet throughout, felt the Sage's gaze settle on him. He reached a tiny hand toward the staff, fascinated by the carved whorls that seemed to shift in lamplight.
The Sage bent down and let him touch the staff's base. "Do you like it, little one?" he asked, voice gentle. Aiman's fingers curled around the wood, and for a moment, the air around them stirred, lifting stray threads of Faridah's headscarf. The Sage smiled. "He is already listening to the wind."
Misra's voice held a hint of relief. "Very well. He will remain here in Windstead. You, Gale Sage, will train him. But if he grows too dangerous to manage—" She shook her head. "No, I won't finish that. But you understand."
The Sage inclined his head. "I do."
Faridah rose, cradling Aiman in one arm. She placed a sweet kiss on his forehead. "My son," she murmured, "you have a gift. We will protect you. But be gentle with yourself, for the wind demands respect."
Amir stepped forward, looking between the Sage and the elders. "We thank you. Aiman will begin lessons tomorrow, at first light."
Ibrahim let out a long breath, folding his hands before him. "So be it."
That night, as the village settled into drowsy quiet, Aiman lay beneath a patched sailcloth, drifting in and out of dreams. His sister's lullaby—one about a boy who rode the wind across distant shores—echoed softly. Outside, the lingering breeze carried the scent of rain and earth.
In sleep, Aiman felt the wind swirl around him—dust motes dancing in the moonlight, carrying whispered riddles: Be still. Be still. Then, as though beckoned by unseen wings, that same breeze curled around his little frame and lifted him in a gentle spiral—tender, powerful, as if guiding him toward something unknown.
Somewhere between waking and dreaming, he whispered, "Guide me," then drifted back into sleep, the sailcloth fluttering above him like a quiet promise that, under the Sage's tutelage, he would learn to shape the gale instead of be carried off by it.
And so, with the wind's soft hum as his lullaby, Aiman settled into the knowledge that, tomorrow, everything would change. He would step beside the wind, and the village would watch—just as it had since the moment he was born into the monsoon's roar.