Night had settled over Windstead like a soft blanket, muffling the rhythms of daily life. Fireflies drifted between huts, their glow flickering in the damp air. Aiman lay on his cot, the thin mattress lumpy beneath him, eyes turning restively beneath closed lids. Training yesterday had drained him, but sleep felt distant as thoughts tumbled through his mind, alive as the wind itself.
Outside his window—left open against the humid stillness of the night—the coconut fronds whispered as a soft breeze fingered through them. Aiman's chest rose and fell with each breath, but he felt disconnected from the calm center the Gale Sage taught him to find. Instead, his mind circled back to the marketplace's hushed voices.
Did you hear what his sister said? "Storm's Child." Do you see how villagers watch him?
A sharp pang of self‐consciousness fluttered in his chest. He shifted on the cot, blanket sliding to reveal the worn lines of his pajamas. The window rattled, a reminder that the wind outside wasn't always gentle: it could bite, tear, even carry rumors to distant shores.
He sat up and crawled to the window, peering out at the dim shapes of neighboring huts. A few torches burned low in front of doorways, and he thought he heard distant murmurs drifting on the breeze. He leaned out, trying to catch words.
"... too powerful for a child…"
"... what if he can't control it?"
Aiman's stomach knotted. A distant dog barked, and a sudden gust rattled the shutters with enough force to make him flinch. He closed the window with a firm click, sealing the night outside, but the whispers lingered in his mind.
He slid off the cot and padded across the hut's woven mat, staff in hand. Mother's oil lamp on the center table cast a warm pool of light, revealing her sitting quietly, sewing a small cloth pouch. She glanced up as he approached, offering a soft, understanding smile without words.
Aiman dropped onto his own stool, head bowed. "They talked about me," he whispered, fingers tightening around the staff. "They say I'm dangerous."
Mother set her needle aside and rose, brushing her apron off. She knelt and put her hands gently on his shoulders. "They worry, my child," she said, voice gentle. "You are different. But they will learn, in time, that your difference can be a gift."
He shook his head, exhaling a frustrated breath. "I try… I try to guide the wind, but sometimes I can't control it. Like last week with the wolves—"
Mother placed a finger on his lips. "You learned from that. Remember how you laid a gentle current around Old Musa to keep him safe? And how you learned to steady yourself on the cliff to hover?"
He closed his eyes, recalling the warm swirl of wind that had saved him from tumbling—both on the cliff and beside the wolves. A soft sigh escaped him. "I do remember. But what if I'm not strong enough next time?"
Mother's smile was patient. "Strength comes from knowing your limits, and humility comes from knowing who you are. You have both."
Aiman studied her face—linen skin creased by decades of sun and salt, eyes full of unwavering trust. He took a shuddering breath and nodded.
Rising, he walked to the center of the hut and set his staff aside. He closed his eyes, summoning the Breath of Stillness: gentle inhalation, steady exhalation. The lamp's glow softened around him as he felt the air settle against his skin, the hush of night seeping in.
For a moment, his chest stilled, and he let go of the marketplace whispers and the fear that shadowed his shoulders. He focused on a single point of calm just beneath his sternum—an oasis where no gale could touch him.
Outside, the palm trees held their leaves steady, and the distant sea whispered lullabies to the shore. Aiman allowed those sounds to fill his mind, steadying each breath. Then, recalling Zahra's lullaby—her gentle voice weaving through his dreams—he began to hum softly:
"When the tempest roars, be the calm within,Stir the winds with care, let your heart begin..."
His voice wavered at first, but as he continued, the notes grew more confident. Mother joined him, producing a soft harmony:
"... Not to shatter storms, but to guide their song,For a hero's gift is knowing where they belong."
Together, in the flickering lamplight, they closed out the night's shadows. The wind outside softened, no longer a restless murmur but a gentle caress. A warm peace settled around Aiman's heart, pushing out fear.
When the lullaby ended, Mother kissed his forehead and tucked the blanket around him, her fingers lingering in a silent blessing.
"Tomorrow," she whispered, "the wind will sing for you again—softly, proudly. "
Aiman nodded, eyes heavy now with a calm born of stillness. He lay down, the staff resting beside him like a quiet promise.
Outside, the wind drifted through the open shutters—no longer harsh, but soft enough to carry a lullaby of its own, guiding him into gentle sleep.