The old man lived alone near the borderlands.
Vale found him by accident, sitting beneath a half-dead tree, breathing shallowly but steadily. His body was frail, his mana weak, his life already nearing its natural end.
"You're the wind," the man said without looking up.
Vale stopped.
"I was waiting," the man continued. "Not for salvation. Just for confirmation."
Vale knelt beside him.
The air around them stilled, respectful.
"I won't take your breath," Vale said.
The man smiled faintly. "I know. That's why I asked for you."
He coughed once, then relaxed.
"I lived long enough," he said. "I just wanted to feel it again."
Vale hesitated.
Then he allowed it.
Not force.
Not denial.
Just passage.
Air moved gently through the old man's lungs, clean and unresisted. His breathing deepened for a moment, his expression softening.
Then he exhaled—and did not inhale again.
Peacefully.
The wind did not steal his life.
It accompanied it.
Vale remained kneeling long after the body cooled.
When he stood, something shifted.
Not power.
Acknowledgment.
The wind passed through the land, carrying no violence, no demand.
Only memory.
Far away, the Covenant felt it.
And for the first time, they understood that wind did not need to kill to change the world.
It only needed to pass.