The desert sun beat down mercilessly as Aiman and the Gale Sage crested a low dune, revealing the outline of crumbling stone walls half‐buried in shifting sands. What remained of the old outpost looked more like a weathered skeleton than a place of refuge—its once‐solid ramparts now fractured, and sand piled against every surface as though the dunes themselves were trying to reclaim it.
Aiman shaded his eyes, letting the wind lift a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He gripped his staff with both hands, as though steadying himself for whatever lay ahead. "Is this it?" he asked quietly.
The Sage nodded, tucking his staff under one arm and brushing sand from his robes. "Yes. Centuries ago, this was a waystation on the Silk Coast trade routes—rumor has it merchants once sheltered here during fierce sandstorms. Over time, the sands swallowed it whole." He paused at the base of a partially collapsed archway. "Let us see what knowledge the wind still whispers here."
Aiman stepped forward, running his fingers over the crumbled stone. Wind‐worn glyphs, almost erased by time, traced looping patterns across the lintel. Each curve and swirl looked as though carved by water rather than chisel, as though the wind itself had etched its language into the rock. He traced one barely visible rune with his fingertip, intrigued by how smoothly the stone had come to resemble parchment.
Inside, the temperature dropped sharply. The interior chambers formed a labyrinth of half‐collapsed corridors and low vaults. Patches of morning sunlight filtered through roofless sections, casting ghostly patterns on the sand‐choked floor. Aiman took a deep breath, inhaling the dry, earthy scent of ancient stone and stirred dust.
"Be cautious," the Sage murmured, eyes sweeping the hushed space. "These ruins may hold more than glyphs—crumbled passages can harbor unstable ledges or hidden pits."
Aiman nodded, advancing slowly toward a narrow corridor where wind had carved swirling lines in the sand. As he approached, he noticed faint runes on the corridor walls—delicate curves that glowed subtly when he held his hand an inch away. They formed a map of currents, as though indicating how wind once moved through these halls.
He knelt to brush away a top layer of sand, revealing a small stone pedestal. On it lay a weathered scroll, its edges frayed like dried leaves. A flicker of excitement raced through Aiman's chest. "Sage—look." He gingerly picked up the scroll, careful not to disturb the faint residue of sand that clung to its surface.
The Sage knelt beside him, studying the glyphs peeking through the scroll's brittle fibers. "This is part of the Wind Codex," he whispered, eyes alight. "Advanced vortex weaving—techniques I've only read about in half‐lost manuscripts." He carefully unfurled the scroll, revealing diagrams of interlocking spirals and annotations describing how to bind multiple currents into a single, stable funnel.
Aiman's pulse quickened as he scanned the diagrams. He discovered notes about "redirection swirls," instructions on how to redirect a sandstorm's heart away from settlements. Each line of text carried the weight of ancient masters who had walked these halls, guided by the wind's hum.
"I never imagined finding this," Aiman breathed, absorbing each detail. "It's like they left their own breath behind."
The Sage pressed a finger to his lips, eyes still fixed on the scroll. "This knowledge is powerful but incomplete. Half‐understood lore can be dangerous. If you attempt a vortex without the full context… you could end up producing a storm rather than calming one." His gaze shifted from the scroll to Aiman's earnest face. "We will pack this carefully. Take only what we can study later."
Aiman folded the scroll with reverence and tucked it into his satchel. Behind him, a sudden gust swept through the corridor, sending drifting sand into a low, rising swirl. He stumbled back, staff planted to steady himself, as the walls seemed to hum with the wind's anger.
Outside the ruin's mouth, the sunlit sand had already shifted: a sandstorm was brewing on the horizon. Dark clouds of dust billowed, and Aiman could taste grit on his tongue. He raised his gaze to the Sage, who placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Show me," the Sage commanded. "Use the rune beneath you—redirect that storm."
Aiman planted his staff in the stone‐pocked floor, aligning his feet with the ancient glyph carved into the entrance's threshold. He closed his eyes, recalling the intricate curves from the scroll. The desert wind roared, but he found the still point in his chest and let his palms open.
A ribbon of air formed, narrow and focused, coiling around the storm's edge like a shepherd's crook. He traced his staff in a wide arc, guiding the wind's vector so that the towering wall of sand veered eastward—away from the oasis they planned to reach.
The sandstorm raged for only a moment—a fierce, angry bellow—before it lost momentum and dispersed, leaving only a fine dust in the air. Aiman's knees shook, heart hammering. He opened his eyes to see the Sage nod, impressed.
"That was… incredible," Aiman whispered, brushing grit from his palms. "I actually guided it."
The Sage rose, sweeping a hand over the empty sky where no storm should have been. "Indeed. Yet remember: you used a rune whose full meaning you do not yet know. One day, we will return to study the missing pages—the complete sequence. For now, let us leave this place with gratitude."
Aiman breathed deeply, savoring the cool sense of accomplishment. He slipped the scroll further into his satchel, careful to protect its fragile fibers. Around them, the ruined outpost lay silent once more, its glyphs resting under a blanket of wind‐blown sand.
As they stepped back into the glaring sunshine, Aiman cast one last glance at the rubble—its secrets half‐revealed, its lessons etched into his soul. With the scroll in his satchel and the dunes stretching out before him, he felt both the thrill of discovery and the weight of humility: ancient knowledge demanded respect, and the wind's legacy now rested in his hands.
Together, Aiman and the Gale Sage walked forward, leaving the windswept ruins behind, toward the promised oasis and the healing green beyond.