Sunrise found Windstead's marketplace already bustling. Stalls lined the narrow dirt lane, each manned by vendors hawking fresh fish, handwoven baskets, fragrant spices, and sweet rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves. Palm fronds overhead cast shifting shadows on wares, and a gentle breeze—still tinged with the orchard's calm—wafted through the air.
Aiman walked beside his father, his small hand gripping the weathered wood of his training staff. He wore the leather pouch the Sage had given him—a simple satchel woven from dried pandanus leaves, tied at his waist with a thin cord. Inside, tucked in cloth, lay fragments of wind‐glyph sketches: imperfect lines drawn after each lesson.
As they neared the first stall—an old woman selling dried fish—a hush fell across the marketplace. She leaned forward, eyes narrowing and her gnarled fingers stroking Aiman's hair. "So, this is the Stormborn child? You did more than save an orchard yesterday. They say you stilled a pack of wolves with nothing but a breeze."
Aiman's cheeks warmed. He shifted behind his father's leg, uncertain how to respond. He'd meant only to protect the crops and the farmers—yet here he was, a spectacle.
A fisherman lifting nets on the next stand raised an eyebrow. "Wolves? In an orchard? I thought they were just old tales." He peered at Aiman. "Seems your power has teeth as much as claws."
Aiman swallowed. He remembered each moment guiding the wolves gently through the fence, mindful not to harm their pack. Still, he hated how whispers spread faster than wind.
Nearby, a group of merchants loading crates onto a cart of baubles paused to watch him pass. One of them—a tall man with sun‐burned arms—stepped forward, offering a small coin purse. "For your efforts, young master. May it help you on your journey." He winked. "My cousin in Luminar pays well for a wind‐adept's skill."
Aiman shook his head, clutching the leather pouch tighter. His father, sensing his hesitation, offered a polite but firm nod. "Thank you, sir, but Aiman's place is here in Windstead for now."
The merchant shrugged, tucking the purse into his belt pouch. "As you wish—but word of your gift spreads far beyond the isles. Be mindful whom you meet."
Aiman's sister, Zahra, who'd darted ahead to buy fresh mangoes, rejoined them. She bounced on her toes, oblivious to the marketplace hush. "Did you hear? They named a new wind‐god after you—Storm's Child, they call him." She grinned, though Aiman detected her own mix of pride and anxiety.
He offered a small smile in return, scanning faces around him: wonder in some, suspicion in others. A cool breeze whispered through, tugging at the prayer flags overhead as though testing their resolve.
His mother caught up, wiping sweat from her brow as she arranged the fruit Zahra had selected. "Be patient, Aiman. The wind will settle," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Let the village speak. You know who you are."
Aiman nodded. He let his gaze wander to the far edge of the marketplace, where the Gale Sage stood in quiet repose. His robes were loose, yet his posture remained resolute—an anchor amid shifting leaves and shifting opinions.
Suddenly, the Sage approached, stepping between two bustling stalls. Aiman's heart stuttered.
"Word travels quickly," the Sage said, voice low but carrying over the market din. "Some praise you; others fear you. But remember, our goal remains the same: learn to guide the wind with compassion."
Aiman inhaled, recalling the stillness that had helped him guide wolves without harm. "I understand. But it's hard to know what people expect—hero or threat?"
The Sage offered a rare, wry smile. "When I first arrived, many feared I would bring storms instead of calm. Yet you have seen how gentleness can steer storms away. The villagers will learn in time—those who truly listen, that is."
Aiman tugged lightly at the leather pouch. "What if they never learn? What if they see me only as a weapon?"
The Sage knelt slightly, bringing his face level with Aiman's. "Then you must show them there is more to the wind than its roar. Teach them how to breathe with it—listen to its quiet before they see its power."
Aiman swallowed, looking around at the market's swirl—vendors clamoring for attention, children darting between mothers' skirts, livestock bleating for fodder. In that chaos, he realized that if he could guide a gust to steer wolves gently, he could guide his place in this village. He nodded.
"Good," the Sage said, rising again. "Now, let us buy supplies for tomorrow's lesson. We'll practice in the fields—melding wind with earth, so no seeds are lost."
Aiman's father approached and slid an arm around his shoulders. "Come on, son. I hear the baker has fresh sweet cakes today." He ruffled Aiman's hair. "Consider it a reward for—you know—saving the village."
Aiman offered a shy laugh, glancing back at the crowd. The hushed murmurs had already shifted to chatter—an ebbing tide. Some faces bore new respect; others still watched warily. But he felt the weight in his chest shift: curiosity and understanding would replace fear, so long as he remembered to guide the wind with care.
Hand in hand with his family, Aiman walked down the market lane, staff and pouch at his side. Above him, multicolored prayer flags fluttered in gentle arcs, faithful witnesses to his journey: a reminder that even amidst whispers, the wind awaited his will—ready to speak its quiet truths.