The Windless Child was a story told in whispers at the edges of the clan courtyard. Parents warned children not to approach him. Teachers spoke of him only in measured tones.
Vale found him on the outskirts of the old training fields, a boy no older than twelve, hair pale as moonlight and eyes too dark to read.
The boy sat cross-legged, the air around him still, not stirred by even the softest breeze.
Vale approached cautiously. "Are you… listening?"
The boy tilted his head. "I hear everything," he said softly, "but nothing listens back."
Vale knelt beside him. "You… resonate?"
A faint smile. "I try. But the wind does not answer me."
Vale could feel it—the subtle absence, not of sound, but of influence. Even the grass around the boy refused to sway. It was a void, a place where natural resonance could not penetrate.
"Why are you here?" Vale asked.
"To wait," the boy replied. "Until someone who understands comes."
Vale's fingers brushed the hem of the boy's sleeve. A chill ran up his arm. "And what will they do?"
The Windless Child shrugged, eyes fixed on the distant mountains. "Teach me. Or leave me. I have no other path."
Vale stayed for a while, listening—not to the wind, nor the echoes, but to the stillness itself.
In that silence, he realized something crucial: not all resonance could be forced. Some had to be invited, nurtured, and protected.
And the Windless Child—like Vale himself—might be more dangerous than any echoing roar.