The desert's midday heat pressed down like an unshakable weight, but Aiman stood determined on a flat, empty expanse of golden sand. Around him, the dunes shifted in slow, hypnotic waves, and the sun beat directly overhead, turning every grain to a glittering ember. On the horizon, a thin shimmer betrayed the heat's mirage.
Aiman shaded his eyes, squinting at the lone figure beside him: the Gale Sage, staff in hand, robes flapping slightly in a faint breeze. Nearby lay the open Wind Codex scroll from the ruins—fragile parchment depicting runic diagrams of swirling sand and sketches of vortex shapes.
"Today," the Sage said, voice calm against the desert's roar, "you will attempt your first full desert vortex. You know how to guide small gusts; now learn to summon and contain a dust devil. But remember: you must not disturb the earth beneath you. The dunes have life, even hidden beneath the sands."
Aiman swallowed, recalling the glyphs he had traced in Chapter 28. He knelt to brush his fingertips over the scroll's diagrams, fingertips tingling as if they still carried the glyphs' whisper. He traced the spiral shape—three concentric rings narrowing into a single point, an instruction to coax the wind from gentle ripple into spiraling funnel.
He rose and planted his staff vertically in the sand before him, carving a narrow circle with his boot to mark his sacred ground. His heart raced with anticipation. Last time, the desert wind had defied him; now, he would meet it on its own terms.
"Find the stillness first," the Sage coached, stepping back. "Then let the wind surge into that calm you've made."
Aiman closed his eyes, inhaling until he felt the heat recede to a dull throb in his chest. In the hush of that pause, he heard a subtle hum at his ankles—dust lifting in tiny eddies. He lifted slow, deliberate breaths, imagining the glyph's spiral, coaxing the wind to gather into one place.
When he opened his eyes, he extended his arms in a wide arc, palms cupped toward the ground. He exhaled firmly: a breath meant to draw the dust into a gentle swirl. At first, nothing happened—only the faintest quiver in the sand. He frowned, concentration tightening his brow.
He tried again: a sharper inhale, a quicker pivot of his left foot. The swirl formed—thin, unstable, wobbling like a newborn's dance. The dust devil lifted a ridge of sand at its base but sagged immediately. Aiman adjusted, pivoting his right foot, widening his stance, cupping a slightly stronger current. The vortex straightened, lifting a thin column of sand three feet into the air before sputtering out.
He exhaled in frustration: Too weak. He remembered the Sage's words: Not force, but coax. He closed his eyes again, feeling the desert's pulse beneath his feet. He opened them, planting his staff firmly and stepping forward with measured rhythm—heel, ball, toes—tracing the spiral from the glyph.
On the third attempt, the dust devil formed with a steady hiss, lifting sand in a tall, elegant ribbon that circled at his feet without touching the ground's deeper layers. Aiman's heart leaped as the vortex rose to five feet, sand spiraling in a smooth, glassy ribbon. The procession of grains made a soft, rattling hum that filled his ears.
A sharp gust from an unseen desert wind threatened to topple the nascent funnel, but Aiman stayed calm. He angled his palms slightly, guiding his breath into the vortex's outer edge, stabilizing it. The dust devil swayed, but Aiman met it with gentle shifts of will—no fierce force, only a steady hand guiding soft currents.
The villagers of Windstead might have cheered if they saw him now, but here it was just Aiman, the Sage, and the desert's raw breath. He breathed evenly, eyes locked on the twisting column, drawing on every lesson: the Breath of Stillness, the runic shapes, the desert's hum.
One minute passed. His sandals were warm, his shirt clung to his back, sweat trickled down his temples, but he held the vortex steady. The sand beneath remained unchanged—no dent, no shift in the dune's shape. He felt like a dancer on a fragile stage, every muscle tuned to the wind's silent music.
When the Sage nodded, Aiman released the wind with a smooth exhale, letting the dust devil collapse inward until only loose grains drifted in lazy circles at his feet. He rose, staff in hand, chest heaving with exhilaration.
"Exceptional," the Sage said, voice proud but measured. He approached, trailing the vortex's final echoes. "You have created a desert wind funnel that respects the earth. That is Stage One mastery—enough to lift and hold without destruction."
Aiman blinked, breathing heavily. His pulse pounded at his throat, but pride bloomed like a desert flower, bright and unexpected. "I—did it," he whispered, tracing the scroll's spiral one last time before rolling it up. "I guided it."
The Sage pocketed the scroll and placed a steady hand on Aiman's shoulder. "Your progress is remarkable. Yet, remember: one more lesson remains today—how to use this vortex to shield rather than only to display power." He swept his hand toward the desert's horizon, where a distant cloud of sand roiled in need of guidance. "We will save that for tomorrow. For now, rest. You've earned it."
Aiman nodded, letting relief wash over him as the desert wind died to a gentle whisper. He tasted dust on his lips but couldn't suppress the wide grin stretching across his face. He realized that each trial—wolves, mirages, sand serpents, scorpions—had led to this: a moment where he found the wind's center, not a storm's heart.
Together, they walked back toward the rudimentary camp, Aiman's staff clicking a steady beat in the sand. Above him, the sun continued its reign, but in his chest, a cooler breeze lingered—the calm breath of mastery he vowed to carry wherever the wind beckoned next.