Evening light filtered through the slatted walls of Windstead's small infirmary, casting striped shadows on the rough wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of herbs and salt from the nearby sea—a comforting scent that reminded me of home, even though my heart still pounded at the memory of the earlier chaos.
Old Musa lay on a low cot, propped up on a folded wool blanket. His left arm was wrapped in coarse linen, darkening where blood had seeped through. By his side, my father, Amir, hovered, concern etched into every line of his face. My mother stood just behind him, her grip on my shoulder firm, as if to steady me. My sister, Zahra, perched on a stool near the door, legs swinging nervously. Outside, villagers murmured, peeking through the open slats to catch a glimpse.
The Gale Sage knelt at Musa's side, placing a gentle hand on the man's wrist. His eyes were focused on the linen—then on me, as I shifted from foot to foot, feeling useless. I still clutched my small wooden staff, its carvings almost a comfort.
"How's the pain?" the Sage asked Musa, voice quiet.
Old Musa winced but gave a soft smile. "It's more pride than pain," he said. He nodded at me. "Blame the kid. He's strong."
I lowered my head, cheeks warm. "I'm sorry."
The Sage reached into a small leather pouch at his belt and drew out a sprig of mint and a strip of clean cloth. He dipped the mint into a clay bowl of cool water and crushed it between his fingers, releasing a fresh scent. Then he dabbed the meager poultice onto an open corner of the linen, gently pressing it to Musa's bruised skin.
The injured man exhaled, and the muscles in his face relaxed. Clearly, he was used to pain—just not from the hands of a child wielding wind. My heart sank. I hadn't wanted to harm anyone. I had tried to help.
The Sage smoothed the cloth, indifferent to the sweat dotting his brow. Then he turned to me. "After stabilizing him, I want you to try something."
My eyes lifted. "Try… something?"
He nodded. "A minor task. Use a gentle breeze to clear the dust from his wound—no stronger than a whisper. Just enough to keep the area clean."
I swallowed. My palms itched to try, but I remembered yesterday's lesson: hard power without precision could cause more harm. I closed my eyes, separating the memory of earlier—my gust that knocked Musa over—from the lesson of stillness. I focused on that calm place within me, imagining only a silent invitation for air to flow where needed.
"Whenever you're ready," the Sage said, hands folded across his lap.
With a deep breath, I thought of the lotus petals I'd seen my mother pressing into healing poultices—soft, forgiving. I raised my small hands, palms facing the wound but not touching it. I pictured a single, gentle swirl of air grazing Musa's sleeve.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The stillness grew thick in the stuffy infirmary. I felt every pulse of my heart, each breath rising and falling like a tide. In the silence, I sensed the faintest shift in the air—like a sigh of acknowledgment.
When I exhaled, a narrow thread of wind wove itself across Musa's arm, lifting loose dust and carrying it away—just like a dandelion seed caught on a breath. I opened my eyes to see fine grains drifting off the cloth, revealing the mint‐soaked linen beneath. The cloth fluttered gently, pressuring the air around him just enough to keep scurrying insects at bay.
A wave of warmth spread through me. I didn't knock Musa over this time. The Sage nodded, his eyes soft with encouragement. "Excellent."
Musa let out a relieved breath. "That… that felt like a breeze from the coconut groves. Thank you, little one."
I managed a small, shy smile. "I— I tried not to blow too hard."
My mother exhaled the quietest sigh—a mixture of relief and pride. Father, usually the strong, silent type, clapped me lightly on the shoulder. "Well done, Aiman. Your wind has a gentle side."
As the last village lanterns flickered on outside, casting soft, wavering lights through the slats, the Sage rose from his kneeling position. He folded his hands and tucked Musa's arm gently behind a pillow. "Control is more than just strength," he said. "Today, you learned that even a whisper of wind can save someone without causing harm."
I looked at Musa—his eyes were half‐closed in relief, lips curved in gratitude. That feeling of guilt I'd carried since my gust in last action eased; it replaced itself with determination.
The Sage laid a hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the door. "Rest for now. Tomorrow, we practice guiding the wind so no one is harmed—neighbor, traveler, or child alike."
I nodded, stepping into the hallway, sunlight glinting off the ancient wooden beams. The world outside seemed quieter now, the threats of bandits softened by shared relief. I, too, felt quieter—my heart no longer pounding with fear but steady, anchored by the lesson of careful control.
As I left the infirmary, my sister caught my hand and walked me home. The dust on the road was damp from evening air. In her eyes, I saw excitement—perhaps for the gentle breeze that whirled around me.
And for the first time, I believed I could guide the wind so it would never harm those I wished to protect. In the hush of the settling evening, I practiced once more, imagining a swirl of air so delicate it could lift only a single leaf.
Tomorrow, I would learn to do it again—only gentler.