First light broke over the desert horizon as Aiman slipped from the nomad camp. The sky was a stained glass of pink and gold, and the air held just a trace of last night's cool, despite the coming heat. He walked uphill from the scattered tents, climbing a gentle rise that offered a quiet view of the dunes stretching endlessly toward the rising sun.
At the top, he paused, letting the sand shift beneath his sandals. In the stillness, he could make out the faint outline of the Verdant Labyrinth's distant edge—where green forest met arid rock, hazy in the morning light. He settled onto a flat sandstone ledge, pulling his knees close to his chest as the wind whispered around him.
Behind him, the nomad camp lay muted: a scattering of camel‐hair tents and the low glow of a single fire in the healer's tent. A gentle rustle of palm fronds beyond their encampment told him his family and the Sage still slept. Here on the ridge, only the wind and his own pulse kept him company.
Aiman closed his eyes and inhaled, recalling the stillness lesson from the Gale Sage: Quiet your mind until even the smallest breath becomes a chorus of calm. He focused on the gentle hum of the morning wind, feeling it as a pulse beneath his collarbone. At first, his thoughts tumbled—scorpion's hiss, Suri's tearful face, the isolation of this ridge. Then, slow as dawn itself, he let the racing thoughts fade until only one remained: I must learn humility.
A sudden gust lifted a swirl of sand below his ledge, reminding him of the sand serpents' wraith and the scorpion's strike. His heart tightened—memories of mistakes, of harm done despite good intentions. He frowned, realizing how every misstep in the desert could cost lives.
He inhaled again, letting the desert's hush cradle him. When he exhaled, he conjured a soft breeze that lifted his hair from his forehead, whispering secrets of restraint. His knees settled lower; he felt the sand shift beneath him, grounding his scattering thoughts.
Footsteps crackled behind him. He opened his eyes to see the Gale Sage standing a few paces away, staff in hand, robes billowing in a gentle eddy of wind. The Sage's gaze was serene but carried the weight of unspoken wisdom.
"You woke early," the Sage observed quietly. His voice was soft, yet the desert eavesdropped on every syllable.
Aiman offered a small nod. "I couldn't sleep. My mind kept returning to last night."
The Sage stepped closer, hands folded across his staff. "Last night taught a lesson that no lesson else can: even with the best of intentions, wind left untempered can wound." He gestured toward the rising sun. "The desert mirrors our thoughts: still water reflects the moon, but ripples and gusts obscure all."
Aiman hugged his staff tighter, feeling its weight both comforting and chastening. "I tried—to guide the child's pain away. But my current was too strong." His voice trembled as he brushed a loose lock of hair behind his ear. "I nearly killed him."
The Sage knelt beside him. "You did not kill him—your heart guided you to heal afterward. But your humility faltered." He traced a pattern on the sand: a swirl converging into a small circle. "Power without humility is like a vortex without center: it destroys everything in its path, including itself."
Aiman watched the swirling pattern, seeing how lines that did not meet in a calm center unraveled at the edges. "I felt proud when I hovered next to the wolves yesterday—when I guided them. But this… this hurt."
The Sage nodded. "Those who ride the wind must first learn to stand on the earth. True mastery begins when you accept your limits—and learn from them." He extended a callused hand, and Aiman placed his staff beside him. Together, they traced fingers through the sand, outlining a perfect circle.
"Within this circle," the Sage explained, "wind moves in harmony. Each inward line meets at the center—stillness guides motion. If you step outside—force from ego—you lose your footing." He tapped the circle's center. "Find that still point in your heart before you call any gust. Otherwise, the wind obeys the last impulse: pride or fear."
Aiman closed his eyes again, breathing deeply until his heartbeat slowed. He felt the desert's hush expand inside him, a vast, hollow space where only necessity existed. Finally, he exhaled, and when he opened his eyes, he looked at the swirling sand outside the circle.
"Try," the Sage urged.
Aiman nodded and rose to his feet. He stood just outside the marked circle, staff in hand, and lifted his palms. This time, he did not call the wind to serve his intent; he asked it gently: Make safe paths, and let arrogance stay behind. His breath flowed steady—inhale. The desert responded, sending a thin, tentative breeze that danced just beyond his fingertips.
He pivoted into a Gale Turn, watching the sand beneath his toes lift into a quiet ridge. The wind held the shape, not from force, but from the hum of stillness in his chest. He guided the breeze along the circle's edge—taming it so that the air caressed the sand rather than ripping it away.
Aiman's pulse thrummed with awareness: the wind moved because he invited it—not because he demanded it. He felt humility—like a breath settled in his lungs—knowing this circle's lesson would guide him far beyond the desert's edge.
The Sage rose, placing a hand on Aiman's shoulder. "Good. You have found the circle's center." His gaze drifted toward the distant dunes that rose like golden waves. "Now, let us return to the camp. The desert's sun will climb soon, and your lesson here will long outlast any fleeting shadow."
As they descended the ridge back toward the nomad tents, Aiman glanced at the swirling sands behind him—once wild, now calm beneath the circle's memory. He realized that though the desert's trials would continue—through scorpions, serpents, and scorching winds—he had found a compass within: a whisper of humility that could steady him through any storm.