Midday sun poured over the Wind Temple's outer precincts, turning the courtyard's smooth flagstones into chunks of warmed stone. Dozens of acolytes gathered here, each dressed in simple white robes, faces flushed from the heat. Ropes strung between stone pillars bore colorful prayer flags—six in a row, each one awaiting a breeze to lift it.
Aiman stood among the novices, staff in hand, heart hammering with both excitement and nerves. Today's trial was the famed Galeshift Relay—a test of precision and teamwork. He glanced at the curved palace walls that enclosed the courtyard, helping funnel even the slightest wind into dancing eddies beneath their arches.
"Sutrashin, next in line," called out a slender acolyte with ink‐dark hair. She stood at the far end, eyes bright as she watched each demonstration.
Aiman swallowed. He wasn't sure if he felt more pressure to perform for the onlookers or to prove himself worthy of wearing the "Stormborn" name. The Gale Sage stood to one side, staff in hand, watching quietly. Aiman tried not to look at him—he valued the Sage's approval, but he didn't want to think about disappointing that calm presence.
One by one, each novice stepped forward, weaving small gusts through a curved channel across the courtyard. The relay required that a controlled, narrow breeze lift the first flag into the air, then pass the current from flag to flag until all six fluttered aloft in unison. Precision mattered more than power—too strong a gust and the flag would rip from its rope; too weak and it wouldn't move at all.
The first novice approached: a wry‐smiling teenager named Talin. He stood tall, feet shoulder‐width apart, arms raised in a graceful arc. His palms hovered just above the courtyard's flagpole base as he inhaled and wafted a gentle breeze. The first flag snapped upward, clear as a signal horn. The breeze slipped to the second flag, and so on—until all six flags fluttered in perfect sequence. Cheers rose from the sidelines.
Talin bowed and stepped aside, chest swelling with pride. Aiman's throat went dry when Sutrashin—who had already seen him succeed in simpler tasks—approached.
Sutrashin closed her eyes and inhaled. Her breath became a whispering hush, and a narrow lane of air skated across the flags, lifting each in turn before dissipating. She opened her eyes, flushed, and offered a small grin to Aiman. "Your turn," she said quietly.
Aiman nodded, stepping into position. He knelt to steady himself and placed his staff at a spot he'd mapped out this morning—where a trickle of wind funneled between two low walls. He'd observed during practice that wind there passed more steadily than in the open courtyard.
He set his palms forward, recalling the Breath of Stillness—clear mind, calm heart, patient breath. He inhaled, feeling the wind gather beneath his fingers. When he exhaled, a narrow swirl moved outward… but it was too forceful. The first flag snapped upward, then snapped down like it had been slapped. The pole buckled at its base, and the rope snapped free, sending the flag tumbling to the ground. Gasps rose around him.
Aiman's cheeks burned. He stepped back, glancing at the bent pole and toward the flag, now tattered along one edge. Sutrashin winced; even she had not expected that much power. The Sage knelt beside him, examining the ruined flagpole. "First attempts often overshoot," he murmured. "Breathe, find the void, then let the breeze flow."
His hand rested lightly on Aiman's shoulder, a reminder that despite failure, he wasn't alone. Aiman closed his eyes, drawing in a steady breath. He thought of Old Musa's healing wind, of the temple basin's stillness—of every lesson that spoke of gentleness rather than force.
He opened his eyes and tried again. This time, he lowered his palms and let his hands form a cup as he inhaled. The breeze that emerged was hesitant, almost shy, brushing the first flag's edge and lifting it just enough to catch the morning light. The flag hovered, flapping softly without straining its rope.
A hush fell over the novices as the wind shifted toward the second flag: a slow but deliberate glint of air that passed between poles, raising each flag in a gentle wave. By the time the breeze reached the final pole, all six flags fluttered in a slow, harmonious dance—spread wide like the wings of birds in flight.
A roar of applause erupted. Aiman's cheeks tingled as he lowered his arms, staff clutched to his chest, legs trembling from the strain. He met the Sage's gaze: calm, unshaken, and brimming with pride.
Sutrashin approached with a grin that contained both laughter and relief. "You did it!" she exclaimed, clapping lightly.
Aiman's sister, Zahra, ran forward—eyes alight. "You were amazing! That breeze was perfect!"
He offered a breathless smile, glancing at the six flags dancing above him, each one still catching that gentle current. The memory of his first, clumsy gust was already fading—replaced by a new understanding of how wind could be coaxed, not forced.
The Sage rose, smoothing his robes. "Precision, Aiman, precision. The wind is not a hammer but a brush—you paint through it, rather than strike."
He turned to the gathered crowd of novices and villagers. "Today, Aiman showed that a storm-born child need not roar. He needs only to whisper, and the wind will respond."
A round of cheers echoed through the courtyard. Aiman felt his chest swell with pride, but beneath it lay a quiet determination: tomorrow, he would practice again, perfecting that gentle gust until it felt like an extension of himself—an effortless dance between breath and breeze.
As the sun climbed higher, warming the days ahead, Aiman realized that each step—each pivot and controlled gust—was part of a greater journey. And in this courtyard beneath the temple, where the Wind chimes sang and flags danced, he had found his place among the currents: a child learning to befriend the wind, one whispered swirl at a time.