The first light of dawn stretched across the dirt road leading out of Windstead, turning puddles of monsoon runoff into pools of molten gold. A hush settled over the village—an unusual stillness, as though even the birds were waiting for something. A lone cart, its sail faintly billowing in a gentle breeze, creaked into view.
Villagers—still rubbing sleep from their eyes—stepped into the road to watch. An elderly fisherman set down his net; a cluster of women paused mid‐chatter; children abandoned their games to gawk from a safe distance. The cart was unremarkable except for one thing: the robed figure perched atop it, staff laid across his lap, eyes scanning the village below.
He wore a simple brown cloak, but the hem was frayed in wind‐torn patterns, as if the fabric had learned to breathe. Suspended from the cart's mast was a single, swallow‐tailed sail printed with spiraling glyphs—whirlwind motifs that danced across the surface in shifting shades of blue.
When the cart came to a gentle halt before the cluster of huts, the figure rose, body tall and straight, staff clicking against the wooden planks. Those glyphs on his staff—delicate carvings that snaked around its length—caught the pale light, emphasizing every curve, every minute swirl.
The villagers gathered at the edges of the road, whispering. Some faces registered relief—perhaps this was the teacher the elders had demanded. Others frowned, suspicion in their eyes: a stranger who could summon wind might herald fortune… or disaster.
After a moment's quiet, the stranger spoke in a steady, resonant voice. "I seek the child marked by the storm. The winds have guided me to this place."
A flutter of murmurs spread through the crowd. At the mention of "stormmarked," several parents exchanged uneasy glances. More than one villager reached instinctively for a child at their side.
My father, Amir, stepped forward before my mother could tighten her hold on my small hand. Even in the dim dawn, I recognized the mixture of caution and pride shining in his eyes. "I am his father," he said, voice calm but firm. "You've come for Aiman?"
The Gale Sage inclined his head, as though a breeze were passing through. His robes shifted in slight gusts, though the air was still. "Yes. I have traveled far, guided by distant zephyrs that whispered his name. The wind speaks in riddles, but it is certain in its purpose."
My mother slipped an arm around me, drawing me closer. I tucked my face against her side, peering at the Sage with wide, uncertain eyes.
He scanned the villagers with a steady gaze before letting his eyes settle on me. For a heartbeat, he regarded me not as a child, but as something more—someone poised between earth and sky. His lips curved in a gentle half‐smile.
"Little one," he said, stepping forward and kneeling on one knee. His staff thumped beside him, dust kicking up in a small swirl. "I am the Gale Sage. The wind has spoken of you. You carry a subtle aura—an undercurrent of shifting air that I have felt even from a day's ride away."
I squeaked and hid my head into my mother's skirt. My sister, standing a few paces behind, nudged me with an elbow but otherwise remained silent, equally fascinated.
"Our boy," my father said softly, placing a hand on my mother's back. He met the Sage's gaze. "He's… special, yes. But we know nothing about training him. We only know he can call small breezes—sometimes without even intending to."
The Sage nodded, eyes gentle. He raised his hand and extended a single finger toward me. A puff of air circled around my hair, ruffling my curls. "He is ready," the Sage declared. "The wind grows restless—ancient tempests will not be far behind. If he is to master his gift, he must learn with me."
A hush settled over the crowd once more. My mother drew in a shaky breath, then set me down on the ground. She knelt beside me and brushed a strand of my hair from my forehead. "Aiman," she whispered. "This… man will guide you."
I hesitated, small fingers tightening on her sarong. Still, I felt an odd flutter in my chest—a mixture of excitement and fear—when the Sage's gaze met mine again. He reached out, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. The contact was cool, reassuring, and something in my chest stilled.
"Go with him," my father said, voice soft but unwavering. "We trust the wind—and you."
Neighbors who had gathered at the edge of the road watched intently. Some nodded, finding solace in my father's resolve. Others exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain of what the future might hold now that the Gale Sage had come.
The Sage rose slowly, brushing off the hem of his robes. "At dawn, I will begin his lessons in the clearing near the palm grove," he announced. "There, he will learn to shape the wind's flow, to serve rather than succumb to it."
My mother scooped me into her arms, looking down at me with a mixture of pride and worry. "Go on, my child."
I cast one last glance at my father—his strong shoulders and gentle eyes—and then followed the Gale Sage toward the wind‐sail cart. My sister trailed behind, tugging nervously at her dress as she watched me climb onto the cart's wooden bed. The villagers parted to make room, lingering at the edges to murmur prayers and blessings.
As the Sage stepped into the cart beside me, he tucked his staff under one arm and unrolled a weathered scroll with the other. Before the sail caught its first breeze, causing the cart to ease forward, he rested a hand on my head, offering a final blessing: "The wind will guide you, Aiman Stormborn. Find its calm in every storm."
I settled against the soft curve of the cart's side, heart pounding as we rolled slowly down the dirt road. The village receded behind me, the morning sun cresting the horizon. In that light, the Gale Sage's robes glimmered like shadows caught in a breeze.
Inside me, the wind stirred—curious, expectant, as though it recognized its new companion. I squeezed my mother's hand one more time before looking forward, toward whatever lay beyond the palm trees. I could feel the swirl of possibilities ahead—lessons, challenges, and the chance to discover just how far a gale‐born child might go.