Dawn broke in soft pink and gold over the grassy fields just beyond the village edge. Dew beaded on tall blades of grass, glinting like scattered jewels. Earlier storms had receded, leaving a gentle warmth in the air rather than the monsoon's relentless downpour.
I stood at the mouth of the fields, the Gale Sage by my side, as the first light painted long shadows across the ground. My wooden training staff felt cool in my grip, its carved glyphs catching the morning glow. I breathed deeply—sensing the quiet hum of the world waking up: birds rustling in low bushes, distant roosters crowing, and the soft murmur of villagers walking to morning chores.
"Here, Aiman," the Sage said, his voice low and steady. "This spot is perfect. Air flows in gentle currents between that rise and hollow. Watch how the grass bends toward the hill, then back again as wind swirls around."
He pointed toward a gentle rise—a low hillock whose slope faced the rising sun. A light breeze rippled toward us, sifting through the dew. I could almost hear the grasses humming, a soft chorus orchestrated by the air.
I nodded, heart fluttering. "Okay. What's first?"
The Sage's lips curved in a small smile. "We try a simple gust. Imagine a silent command, but don't force the wind. Let it follow your desire."
I swallowed, thinking of yesterday's Gale Turn and pivoting step. This felt different—yesterday, I'd merely guided an existing swirl. Today, I was meant to call air across distance.
He moved a few paces back, giving me space. "When you're ready, lift your arms as if scooping a bowl of morning air. Think: 'Let the breeze move in my direction.'"
I closed my eyes, recalling the Breath of Stillness—sucking every other thought into a quiet place. Inhale… exhale. The dew‐soaked grass at my ankles trembled. I opened my eyes slowly and raised my arms, palms facing the hill.
"Now," the Sage encouraged, stepping out of the way.
In that moment, I felt the hum underfoot—the grass nudging at my toes—and I focused on guiding that hum forward. I drew in a breath, gathering my thoughts: Gently. Steady. Then, with a soft, measured exhale, I sent the air swirling down the slight incline.
At first, nothing seemed to happen. I tilted my head, eyes narrowing in concentration. The world felt as if it held its breath. Then, a small breeze rustled the leaves of a low bush and—farther off—the wings of two startled birds fluttered as they took off into the sky.
My eyes widened. "I felt it," I whispered, stretching out both arms as if reaching for something invisible. The air rippled again, a faint caress across the field, sending a few more birds scattering from their perches.
Behind me, the Sage nodded approvingly. "Well done. That was your first Gust Command. You didn't force it; you merely asked."
I lowered my arms, heart pounding. The morning air felt alive around my fingertips, as though it recognized me. A soft, proud feeling spread through my chest—somewhere between excitement and relief.
A few villagers had gathered at the fence's edge—toddlers perched on their parents' shoulders, farmers steadying walking sticks, the butcher leaning on his cleaver. Their eyes shone with surprise and admiration.
"So the rumors are true," said Tarek, the blacksmith, crossing his stout arms. "The Stormborn child commands wind."
He grinned, half‐teasing. "Now can you keep it from knocking over my fence poles?"
I grinned back, though my cheeks burned. "I think… I can try."
The Sage placed a guiding hand on my shoulder. "There will be many eyes watching now. Remember: power attracts attention. You must decide whether to show your strength or keep it hidden."
I nodded. The thought made me feel both proud and nervous—like I stood at the crest of a hill with everyone looking up.
My sister, perched on the fence, waved energetically. "Teach me that, Aiman! Teach me that!"
I laughed, tucking a lock of sweat‐darkened hair behind my ear. "Sure—once I know how to keep it under control."
The Sage cleared his throat gently, drawing our attention. "For tomorrow, we practice channeling gusts with more precision—a short breeze that lifts a leaf without scaring all the birds away."
I nodded eagerly, tracing a circle in the air with my fingertip. The displaced dew from the nearby grass clung to my skin, cooling and comforting. I looked out over the fields, imagining countless possibilities: sending a gentle breeze to quench a campfire's smoke, guiding kites to dance in the sky, or perhaps, one day, turning a violent storm aside from Windstead.
My father arrived then, having joined the gathering crowd. He placed a hand on my shoulder, voice low. "Well done, son. Just… remember what the Sage said. That wind will carry stories beyond our huts. Always think before you call it."
I nodded. "I know."
Mother swept into the clearing a moment later, carrying a clay mug filled with tea. She offered it to me; the steam curled upward in tiny, delicate spirals. "Drink, Aiman. You need to keep your strength."
I accepted the mug with both hands—its warmth seeping into my fingers—and took a small sip. The sweet, earthy taste comforted me.
The Sage gathered his scrolls and staff. "We'll meet here again at dawn," he said, voice carrying over the field. "Until then, practice the Breath of Stillness; it will ensure your gusts are steady."
As the villagers parted and returned to their chores—farmers herding goats, bakers carrying loaves of sweet rice to the market—I lingered, staff in hand, gazing at where the last of the birds settled back onto a branch. The gentle wind carried their distant calls across the fields.
I took another sip of tea, then closed my eyes, recalling the swirl I'd summoned, and felt the grass tremble beneath my feet. Somewhere in that swirl was a promise: I would learn to guide wind, but I must listen first.
That evening, as fireflies emerged and the sunset painted the sky in coral streaks, I slept, dreaming of clouds shaped into endless possibilities—awaiting the next dawn's breath.