Dusk draped Windstead in soft lavender hues as Aiman and the Gale Sage climbed a narrow path to the cliffside plateau. From this vantage, the village's thatched roofs clustered like tiny islands surrounded by fields of swaying palms. Beyond, the sea stretched toward the horizon, catching the last glimmers of light in pale silver streaks.
Aiman's small fingers tightened around his wooden staff, its carved glyphs cool against his palm. The warm wind whispered around them—gentle at first, then rising to caress Aiman's cheeks, as though inviting him to dance with it. His heart pounded in his chest: the Sage had said tonight's test would push him further than ever before.
The Sage paused at the plateau's edge, feet planted on a flat rock shaped by centuries of wind. "Tonight, you will harness an updraft," he said in his calm, resonant voice. "You've learned to turn and hover using the Gale Dance. Now, you must ride the wind's lift and hover over the village for a full minute. Do you understand?"
Aiman swallowed, nodding. "Yes, Sage. I—I'll try."
The Sage studied him for a long moment, gauging his resolve under the fading light. Then he stepped a few paces back and raised his staff, tracing a slow arc in the air. The glyphs on the staff seemed to glow faintly, and Aiman felt the air shift—cooler, stronger, funneling toward the cliff's edge.
"Aiman," the Sage continued, "do not force the updraft. Find its vector—its path upward—and trust it to carry you. Center yourself, then move."
Aiman closed his eyes, recalling the Breath of Stillness. He grounded himself: feet shoulder‐width apart, knees soft, breath steady. He felt the air at his ankles swirl toward the cliff's lip—a rising current eager to lift, as though hungry for a body that knew how to shape it.
When he opened his eyes, he stepped forward, earning a gust that brushed his clothes and teased his hair. His first attempt was clumsy: he rocked onto the balls of his feet and lifted his arms in a half-hearted pivot. The updraft caught him off‐balance. His left foot slipped on a pebble; he spiraled downward, heart in his throat, before the wind pushed him into a crouch on a lower ledge.
Gasps drifted up from the village below, tiny figures pausing to watch the spectacle at the cliff's crown. Aiman's cheeks flamed; he felt every eye upon him. The Sage called out, voice steady: "Breathe, Aiman. Feel where the wind lifts, not where it crashes."
Taking a sharp intake of breath, Aiman closed his eyes again, listening to the wind's song. He recalled the gentle swirl he'd used in the Galeshift Relay: a narrow, precise current that passed from flag to flag. He visualized that precision, then opened his eyes and shifted his stance—left foot edging onto a small rock jutting from the cliff's face, weight balanced carefully.
This time, when he pivoted, his movement was measured: heel to ball to toes, arms curving gradually, fingers opening like petals to receive the breeze. The updraft lifted him—not forcefully, but as if nudged by a friend. He felt the wind's support beneath his feet, a cushion that held him.
His heart lurched: he was rising. The ground slipped away, and for a heartbeat, he hovered above the plateau. Below him, villagers pointed skyward, their shadows long in the fading light. Aiman's pulse thundered, breath catching at the pure exhilaration: he was floating.
His mind sought balance, recalling every lesson: Stillness first, then motion. His breaths came slow and even as he felt the wind's vector beneath his soles, guiding him up—just enough to clear the rocky ledge and keep him aloft.
A third attempt at a pivot, and he was steady: arms circling in hushed warmth, wind swirling like a cradle around him. One… two… three… thirty seconds. His heart pounded, but he held firm. The villagers' murmurs drifted upward—awed, hushed voices calling his name. His sister's soft shriek carried on the breeze, mixing with the distant creak of wind chimes from the temple.
Aiman's cheeks burned—not from fear, but from pride twinned with the weight of knowing the Sage's gaze was fixed on him. He inhaled again, steadying himself, and directed the updraft—moving his feet just a hair's breadth to counter any wobble. His staff tapped lightly against the surface of the air, guiding its flow.
One minute passed in a blur of fluttering leaves and fluttering heartbeats. Finally, Aiman eased his knees, letting the wind lower him gently onto the plateau. When his feet touched solid ground, a wave of applause erupted from below—rickety cheer that rattled against the cliff walls. He stumbled once, then caught his balance, staff planted firmly in the dirt.
The Sage nodded slowly, eyes reflecting both pride and a hint of solemnity. "Well done, Aiman. Hovering is a gift of Stage 1 mastery: enough to lift and hold, but not to shape broad currents. You've done well to stay aloft. But know this: shaping large‐scale winds demands deeper harmony—understanding how each strand in the air connects."
Aiman exulted in his success, chest swelling with a mix of triumph and exhaustion. Below, the villagers broke into cheers once more, waving and calling his name. He dipped his chin in a shy bow, staff pressed to the ground like an anchor to the world.
As the village lights blinked to life—lanterns hung from doors, oil lamps lit along pathways—Aiman turned to face the Sage. "Is there more to learn?" he asked, voice eager.
The Sage's fingers traced a swirling glyph in the air before him. "Plenty," he said quietly. Then, gazing out over Windstead, he added: "Legends speak of a Stormmarked Hero—one who will calm a gathering gale that threatens continents. For now, hovering above a village is your milestone. But remember: every great storm begins as the faintest whisper. You will be called to answer that whisper, one day."
Aiman looked down at his shaking hands—hands that had once only lifted small breezes—and nodded, breath still coming in quick bursts. The horizon deepened into ink blue as night settled, and he felt the first true stirrings of a destiny far larger than he'd ever imagined.
Together, Aiman and the Sage descended from the plateau, leaving behind the soft glow of village lamps and the wind's fading murmur. In the hush that followed, Aiman's heart soared with the knowledge that he was no longer simply a child who danced with wind—he was its partner, destined to walk alongside even the greatest storms.