The sun was already high by the time Aiman and the Gale Sage crested the final ridge of Windstead's outer dunes. The landscape stretched before them in a vast sea of golden ripples—shifting waves of sand that gleamed under the relentless heat. Aiman paused for a moment, staff in one hand, sampling the air: dry, hot, like the breath of an oven. Each step forward felt heavier than the last.
"Remember," the Sage began, voice low but clear, "desert wind is both friend and trial. Here, you cannot rely on fresh breezes. You must draw even the smallest draft with intention—and use it sparingly."
Aiman nodded, though his chest felt tight. He shifted both feet onto the dune's crest, squinting into the glaring light. The Gale Sage raised his own staff, tracing a small circle in the air. Almost immediately, a thin line of wind appeared along the dune's peak, forming a narrow ridge where the sand stayed slightly cooler.
"Follow my lead," the Sage said. He moved his feet through a series of precise steps—heel to ball, toes flicked just enough to catch an eddy. As he pivoted, the breeze at his ankles gathered into a short, swirling ribbon that lifted a layer of sand, temporarily stabilizing the crest.
Aiman watched, fascinated. The wind's touch on the sand looked like a finger tracing an invisible line. He tried to mimic the Sage's stance, planting his right heel then pivoting onto the ball of his foot. His arms came up, a little stiff, as he attempted to cup the air in his palms.
At first, nothing happened. The wind at his feet faltered, and he stumbled as the dune's narrow ridge shifted beneath him. He scrambled to catch himself, sand spilling over his toes like molten sugar. A few anxious calls drifted up from his parents, standing a short way behind, but he blocked them out.
He closed his eyes, steadying his heartbeat, and remembered the Breath of Stillness: inhale… exhale… In the hush between those breaths, he felt a faint hum of wind ripple around his ankles. He shifted his weight, nudging a fingertip of wind toward the crest. The breeze was no more than a confused whisper at first, but as he traced his toe along the sand—barely lifting it—he felt the dust gather into a narrow edge, firming the top of the dune just enough to steady his foot.
A warm thrill seized him: he had made wind happen. Opening his eyes, he saw the small ridge of lifted sand, holding firm even as the sun beat down. Aiman's pulse quickened with pride.
But the heat was oppressive—each breath felt as though he were inhaling fire. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat. Beads of moisture stung his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
The Gale Sage approached, offering a small cloth tied with mint leaves. "Hydrate," he said. "One small sip at a time. In this heat, water is as precious as wind."
Aiman accepted the cloth, dabbing his forehead before taking a measured sip. The cool peppermint flavor soothed his tongue, and he felt a rush of relief. He offered the cloth back, but the Sage shook his head. "Keep it," he said. "Heat steals focus. You must be alert."
Aiman knelt on the crest and practiced again, shifting weight onto his left foot, then pivoting onto his right. This time, the line of wind formed more quickly, a lean ribbon of moving air that traced a path along the dune's peak without dissipating. He allowed it to hold the sand firm beneath his foot, giving him room to adjust his stance.
He inhaled, tasted the sharp dryness, and exhaled, steadying the gust. The wind lifted a thin curl of sand that drifted down the dune's leeward side. Below, his parents watched with cautious relief—proud that he managed to summon wind in such an arid place, yet aware of the strain it took.
"Good," the Gale Sage said, voice warm. "Now, instead of charging the updraft, draw only what you need. Keep your movements small. Conserve your breath and your energy."
Aiman nodded, glancing at the dunes stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The ripple patterns hinted at wind pathways—each wave in the sand a silent record of previous breezes. He traced his fingers over his staff's carvings, recalling the glyphs that guided currents at the Wind Temple.
The Sage stepped back, allowing Aiman space. "Try traversing that saddle," he indicated a lower dip between two dunes. "Use minimal wind to stabilize your path."
Aiman inhaled again, summoning Breath of Stillness. He angled his feet to follow the subtle curve of the sand, and with a gentle push from his palms, he guided a soft breeze ahead of him. The sand beneath his boots flattened, allowing him to cross the saddle without sinking.
Halfway across, a sudden gust from an unseen source—an unpredictable desert wind—whipped past, threatening to unbalance him. Aiman staggered but anchored himself by cupping the wind as it rushed through, easing its force into a narrow channel. He let the excess blow past, a careful exhalation every time the wind slammed.
When he reached the saddle's center, the hot wind scoured his cheeks, but he remained upright, breath steady. The dune on the other side rose, a steep incline that he would need to ascend by more than just footwork.
The Sage called out, "Now, climb."
Aiman shifted his stance, planting his staff's end firmly in the sand, and began stepping upward. Each pivot raised a small ribbon of wind beneath his foot, carving a narrow ledge as he climbed. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked to clear his vision, ginger tea's peppermint tang still lingering on his tongue.
He focused on the rhythm: inhale… step… exhale… pivot. Slowly, the dune's crest neared, and the desert's endless expanse stretched behind him—rolling sands that danced with heat mirages. Aiman's chest burned, but he held fast, feeling the wind's pulse beneath him, guiding his footfalls.
At last, his boot cleared the dune's lip. He stood atop a small plateau, the vast desert unfolding in every direction. His breath came in heavy pants, but triumph swelled in his chest. Below, he glimpsed the distant tree line where the Verdant Labyrinth awaited—a shimmering band of green in the barren sea.
The Sage joined him on the plateau, placing a hand on Aiman's shoulder. "Well done," he said, voice warm with pride. "Your control is improving. Remember—only draw from the wind what you need; do not force excess. In the desert, every drop of breath and every gram of energy matters."
Aiman nodded, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. He reached into his satchel, pulling out another rice cake and taking a small bite. He felt its sweetness boost his strength, reminding him that nourishment came in many forms—food, water, even the faintest ripple of air.
Together, they gazed to the west, where the first hints of dawn's light faded into the shimmering heat. Aiman felt a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration—this was not Windstead's gentle breezes or the Wind Temple's guided currents, but desert wind: a harsh teacher that demanded respect.
Yet, he had learned to listen, to coax that wind into gentle support. And that, he realized, was the essence of his journey.
With the sun climbing higher, they prepared to continue westward—one step, one gentle gust at a time—toward the fires that waited at the edge of the jungle, and a destiny spread across dunes and leaves and the very currents of the world.