The sun hung low, casting long orange shadows into a narrow canyon where towering sandstone walls rose on either side like silent guardians. Aiman and the Gale Sage followed a winding path of cracked earth, their footsteps stirring tiny clouds of dust. The heat here was more bearable—cooler in the canyon's shade—but the air felt thick with secrets, as though the walls themselves whispered warnings.
"Stay alert," the Sage instructed, voice soft in the hush. "Sand serpents emerge at dusk, drawn by ley currents that linger in shadowed places."
Aiman's heart quickened. He'd heard rumors of sand serpents—small creatures formed of swirling grains, each glinting like flecks of gold. They were mischievous at best, dangerous if startled. He gripped his staff tighter, recalling how fragile his balance could be on shifting sand.
They rounded a bend, and suddenly the canyon opened into a small alcove, sunlit but ringed by shadow. A thousand grains of sand writhed like living things: twisting columns five or six feet tall, moving with serpentine grace. Their forms blurred between solidity and shimmer, their eyes—tiny sparks of amber—watching as intruders stepped into their lair.
Aiman's pulse raced. "They're beautiful," he whispered, awed and uneasy at once.
The Sage nodded. "But they guard this ley nook fiercely. We must pass without harming them." He let his staff drop into a ready position. "Use only the gentlest gust. Guide them, do not strike."
Aiman swallowed, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, recalling how he'd guided wolves without forcing them. He lifted his palms and let the Breath of Stillness settle his mind. Then, exhaling, he sent a narrow swirl across the nearest serpent.
The sand column paused in mid‐sway, its form shivering but not dispersing. Aiman felt relief, then alarm: in a blink, several nearby serpents converged, weaving into a larger mass—an ever‐shifting wraith of sand and shadow. Its center roiled like a small tornado, growling in a low, humming rumble.
A wave of panic crashed through Aiman. He staggered backward as the wraith whispered, a hollow, rattling hiss. He tried to call another gust, but his breath tangled—too sudden, too frantic—and the wind faltered. He stumbled on a loose pebble, catching himself against the canyon wall.
The sand wraith lunged forward, a billowing wave of jagged scales and tiny teeth made of grit. Aiman's heart threatened to burst, but before he could react, the Gale Sage stepped forward, staff planted firmly on the ground.
He spoke in measured tones, tracing a broad glyph in the air with his free hand. The wind responded immediately—a strong, circular burst that carved a path around the wraith, corralled it, and slowed its advance. Aiman watched in awe as the Sage guided the sand into two smaller serpents again—each flickering with golden eyes—and coaxed them toward gaps in the canyon wall.
Aiman took a shaky breath. The Sage knelt beside him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. "You summoned creatures much smaller than this. When you did, they felt confined, and merged for protection. Your intent was pure, but your current too small. Always remember: small sparks can ignite larger fires."
He offered Aiman a rag tied with mint leaves from his satchel. Aiman wrapped it around his sweating forehead, watching the Sage guide the two separated serpents into the narrow fissures where they quickly slithered out of sight.
The canyon returned to hush, save for the faint trickle of wind in the crevices. Aiman took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I—thank you," he managed. "I wasn't ready for them to combine."
The Sage rose and dusted sand from his robes. "You handled well what you could. Now, you've seen the desert's creatures can defy expectation. Respect them, guide them gently, but know when to call for aid."
Aiman nodded, gripping his staff again. The wraith's echo lingered in his mind—dark, shifting, reminding him that the wind's lessons could come from both friend and foe.
Together, they continued down the canyon's narrow path toward the orchard's edge. Aiman's steps were more measured now, each one mindful of the sand's texture, each breath tuned to the desert's whisper. He carried an unspoken promise: to learn not only how to summon wind, but how to temper it, so that when the desert tested him again, he would stand ready, calm at heart.