The sky was a deep indigo, stars still bright as lanterns in the heavens. A thin band of pale light hugged the horizon, promising dawn. In a small clearing just beyond Windstead's last hut, the Gale Sage sat beside a low campfire, its embers glowing orange against the dark earth. I perched on a nearby log, hugging my knees to my chest, watching him flick a dried leaf into the flames. Sparks spiraled upward like fireflies dancing against the sky.
My parents had insisted I stay late to hear the Sage's story. Dinner had come and gone in a hurried rush: bowls of rice and fish, then hurried goodnight hugs before I escaped into the early evening hush. I carried my little wooden staff—its carvings catching the firelight—as though it were a lifeline to the Sage's world.
"Sit closer, Aiman," the Sage called softly. "The fire is cold for a small gale‐born."
I shifted forward, squaring my legs beneath me. The Sage's robes smelled faintly of damp moss and dried palm fronds—a comforting, earthy scent that felt like home. He patted the log beside him, and I settled there. The warmth reached me slowly, mingling with the night's subtle chill.
He knelt beside a small pouch and unrolled a scroll of weathered parchment stained with ancient smudges. "Tonight, I share with you a tale," he said, voice quiet enough that even the cicadas hushed to listen. "A story of the day I faced the Storm's Vortex—the Great Maelstrom—to protect more than just a village."
My stomach fluttered. I'd heard whispers of the Storm's Vortex—a legendary tempest said to uproot trees and swallow entire fields in minutes. If anyone could tell me what it felt like, it was him. I leaned forward, trying to catch every word as he began.
"Years ago," he started, "long before you were born, I traveled east, pursuing a wandering gale that touched distant lands. That gale carried rumors of a vortex gathering strength in the desert beyond the Great Dunes." He paused, eyes reflecting the fire's glow. "They said this vortex—once a whisper of wind—had grown into a roaring force that no man could stand before."
I pictured swirling sands, a dark funnel cutting across the horizon. My palms itched—memory of my own small vortex whispered beneath my fingers.
The Sage continued, "I arrived at a settlement—less a village and more a cluster of tents—where crops lay trampled and livestock huddled in fear. The villagers spoke of half their homes collapsing in a single gust. All that was left was a ring of baked earth, the wind's anger concentrated there."
I shivered, though the night air was warm. "Were you afraid?" I asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.
He chuckled softly. "The question I ask young wind adepts is never, 'Are you afraid?' but 'What will you do despite that fear?' Fear is like a desert wind: if you let it take hold, it throws you off course. I took a deep breath, feeling the dusty air sting my lungs, and thought of home. Then I walked toward the storm."
He leaned back, eyes distant. "Standing at the edge, I felt the vortex's pull—a void that ate light and sound. The wind roared in my ears like an army of wild beasts. Yet, in that moment, I remembered the Breath of Stillness. I closed my eyes, found the calm within, and reached out, asking the wind to listen."
I closed my eyes too, imagining that still place—the hush I felt when the Sage taught me to call the smallest gust. The desert sun had beaten down on me then, but the wind had paused, as though considering my request.
He lifted the scroll, unbinding a loose knot of twine. "There, I learned a secret line from the Wind Codex—a pattern of glyphs that shapes a stabilizing field. When the vortex threatened to swallow me, I traced those lines across the air. The glyphs glowed faintly in my mind, as though etched into the wind itself. My hands moved, not out of strength, but out of trust in the air's willingness to cooperate."
He let the scroll unfurl between his hands, revealing spiraling symbols and curving lines that looked like dance steps across the parchment. I leaned in, mesmerized by the flowing shapes.
"This glyph," he said, pointing with a finger that seemed older than memory, "directs wind currents into concentric loops—like a gentle whirlpool in the desert's sea of sand. When I activated it, the vortex's edge stalled, as if the air itself paused to comprehend my request. For a heartbeat, everything was still."
A single cricket began its evening song, tentative at first, then gaining confidence as if emboldened by the calm. The wind shifted, lifting a loose ember from the fire, carrying it high.
"When I opened my eyes," he went on, "I spoke to the wind—asked it to yield, to fall back. And it did. The vortex shrank, sand swirling downward like a cascade of stars, until nothing remained but parched earth and an echo of thunder."
My breath caught—he had faced the storm itself and guided it away. He rolled up the scroll carefully, as if sealing a secret.
"That day," he said softly, "I understood that power lies not in subduing the wind with force, but in forging a bond—out of respect and willingness to understand its nature." He looked at me, focus sharpening. "That is why you've learned the Breath of Stillness first. It's the foundation for any wind you summon. Without it, you become the storm."
A faint breeze drifted through the clearing, ruffling my hair. I felt the weight of his words settle in my chest: power tempered by humility, strength guided by compassion.
"Now," he said, rising and tucking the scroll into his pouch, "you have heard my tale. Tomorrow, we will explore a new glyph—one that channels wind into a shield. For now, rest with the knowledge that, even when storms threaten, a single whisper can calm the fiercest gale."
Drowsiness tugged at my eyelids, but I fought it, wanting to etch every flicker of his story into my mind. The fire crackled once more, and I glanced at my hands—tiny fingers that, with training, might one day trace a glyph to quiet an entire tempest.
My sister scooted closer, pressing her head against my shoulder. "Is that real?" she asked, voice a bare murmur. "Did you really calm the storm in the desert?"
I nodded, feeling both small and powerful—like a sapling under an ancient tree. "He did. And someday, I will, too."
Outside, the wind sighed, echoing the Sage's words. In the hush before dawn, I closed my eyes and let that promise cradle me, dreaming of glyphs and gentle breezes, of storms tamed by a calm that never wavered.