Dawn's first light seeped into the nomad camp like a promise, softening the shadows that clung to the tents. Aiman stirred awake in the small shared tent, the cool morning breeze drifting through a gap in the canvas. The hush of early morning felt fragile—each sound echoed more clearly: a camel's low groan, the distant flutter of fabric against wood, and the faintest buzz of insects stirring in the sand beyond.
He rose carefully, mindful not to wake the Gale Sage, who still slept on a mat beside him. The night's events replayed in Aiman's mind—how his gust had inadvertently driven the scorpion toward the child, then how, in hunger to heal, he'd cooled the sting with too‐strong a breeze. Shame still burned at the back of his cheeks.
He stepped outside, the ground cool beneath his bare feet. The nomad tents, woven from camel hair, swayed gently in the morning wind. A few flickering lanterns beside the entrance glowed faintly like embers against the deepening blue of dawn. The scent of burning sage drifted from one of the tents—an offering from Basha, the healer, intended to soothe the camp's spirits and cleanse the lingering sting of fear.
Aiman grasped his staff and wandered toward the cot where the injured boy lay under Basha's watchful eye. The child—a girl named Suri—hand still clutching her mother's shawl—stirred restlessly on the narrow cot. Her face was damp with sweat, and a purple‐red welt stood out on her ankle, surrounded by a ring of faint swelling.
Basha sat beside Suri, her aged fingers gently pressing a handful of crushed cactus pulp onto the wound's edge. The girl whimpered, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to stay still. Aiman knelt quietly by the cot's foot, watching the healing process—a combination of herbal remedy and cool winds.
"Good morning, Child of Storms," Basha greeted Aiman softly, her eyes gentle but firm. "Your healing wind helped last night, but morning brings new challenges. Suri's fever may rise as the venom spreads. We must be ready."
Aiman swallowed, shifting the weight of his staff. "What can I do?" he asked, voice low.
Basha nodded at a small wooden bowl filled with clean water and peppermint. "Gently guide cool air over her wound, but do not rush. Only a whisper—just enough to cool the skin and keep it clean." She brushed her hand across Suri's forehead, where a light sheen of sweat had broken out. "Then remain at her side. If the fever rises, we will need both wind and water to soothe her."
Aiman dipped his head and rose, stepping closer to Suri's cot. The girl's eyes fluttered open at his approach, relief mingling with fear. Aiman knelt on the sand, closing his eyes to find stillness. He tapped into the lesson of the Breath of Stillness—quiet the rush of panicked thoughts until he felt the faint heartbeat of wind beneath his skin.
When he opened his eyes, he raised his palms an inch above Suri's ankle. He inhaled in a slow, deliberate rhythm—Stillness, then motion. As he exhaled, a breath of cool desert wind traced over the cactus‐soaked welt, carrying away meager wisps of sand that clung to the healing paste. The air felt damp and soothing, as though the wind itself had wrapped gentle support around the child's wound.
Suri sighed, her small body relaxing once the stinging heat receded. Aiman focused on that precise layer of air—no stronger, no weaker—just enough to keep the area clean. His chest rose and fell evenly, breath guided by memory of the Gale Sage's instruction.
Behind him, Basha watched the blade of a small knife glint in the pale light before she used it to slice a fresh piece of cactus. She crushed the pulp and applied it to the wound's center, the mixture hissing softly as it met the irritated flesh. Suri wailed once, then clamped her mouth shut, shivering in the dawn's cool.
Aiman's palms grew slightly warm as he continued to direct the wind—cooling now, steady now, never wavering. The world narrowed to Suri's shallow breaths and the soft rustle of wind against her skin. Outside, the desert woke in gentle gusts that whispered through the camp, carrying the faint aroma of sage and sand.
After several minutes, Basha's hands moved to Suri's forehead, pressing a damp cloth to reduce the fever. Aiman allowed the wind to drift upward, cooling the cloth's edges and caressing Suri's brow.
The girl's breathing slowed, eyelids closing again in exhaustion. Basha let out a long breath, nodding at Aiman. "You have grown more precise," she said. "Less gust this time—just the right touch."
Aiman exhaled, knees pressing sandy fibers. The weight of responsibility—but also relief—weighed on him. "Thank you," he murmured, glancing at Basha's crinkled smile.
A soft call came from the Gale Sage: "Aiman—time to rest." He emerged from the tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His gaze flicked to Suri's cot, then settled on Aiman. "Your precision grows. But remember: desert wind can change without warning. Even a whisper can sharpen into a blade. Be ever mindful."
Aiman nodded, swallowing the knot of fatigue. He rose slowly, retrieving the cloth draped over his arm. He dabbed Suri's forehead once more, then wiped his brow. Outside, the desert sun climbed higher, and the hour of greatest trial began.
Parents and children emerged from the tents—a hush falling as they saw Suri's weakened form. Khaliq, the nomad leader, knelt beside her, offering a gentle blessing. Across the camp, others whispered prayers. Aiman felt a surge of determination: he would not let the night's mistake define him.
He closed his eyes and lifted both palms overhead, summoning a gentle breeze to shave the heat from the children's sand‐scarred faces, from the camp's dusty walkways, from every oiled lantern. The air grew cooler, as though an unseen stream passed through the tents, carrying relief.
When he lowered his hands, he felt the camp's collective gratitude—soft nods, words of thanks. Aiman met the Sage's gaze and offered a small, tired smile.
He realized that guiding wind wasn't just about bending air—it was about holding a fragile moment between harm and healing. And as the desert's first true heat rose, he remained at Suri's side, a small figure of calm in a wide, uncertain world.