Night had fallen like a velvet cloak over the desert plains, and Aiman's world was a sea of flickering lanterns arranged in a loose semicircle around the nomad camp. The low tents formed a cluster of soft beige against the dark sand, their entrances glowing amber from flickering fires built to ward off the biting cold. Aiman huddled beside the Gale Sage, sharing a small tent draped in camel hair. Outside, a chorus of distant howls drifted across the dunes—wind‐scorpion warnings, nomad children whispered.
Earlier that evening, they had arrived at this camp seeking shelter after guiding wolves from the orchard. The nomads—scarred, weathered by endless sun—had welcomed them with the cautious hospitality of desert folk. Children peered from behind tent flaps, their eyes wide, curious whether Aiman truly commanded wind.
The Sage and Aiman had shared a simple meal of dried dates and roasted beans. Now, as Aiman sat cross‐legged beside the coals, he watched Nomad leader Khaliq gesticulate with a carved bone dagger as he explained the tribe's plight: deeper in the desert, scorpions stirred beneath the dunes, led by a rogue spirit that made their venom more lethal.
Aiman shivered, recalling the sand wraith earlier and remembering how small missteps in guiding wind had nearly harmed Old Musa. His palms itched—sensitive to a breeze that might betray any slip.
A sudden rustle outside the tent drew his attention. A small figure, a girl no older than Zahra, tiptoed in, clutching a clay pitcher of water. She approached Aiman's pair of feet and placed the pitcher before him. "For you," she whispered, eyes bright under a halo of lantern light.
"Thank you," Aiman murmured, accepting the water. The girl slipped away as silently as she came, leaving him struck by her kindness.
His shadow flickered against the tent wall as he rose, cradling the cool clay pitcher. Outside, Khaliq's hunched form huddled beside a flat stone altar, murmuring a prayer to the desert's spirits.
Aiman found the nomad healer, an older woman named Basha, sitting cross‐legged on a low mat near the fire. She was carefully mixing a paste of herbs—sandalwood and crushed cactus—in a shallow bowl. The scent was sharp yet soothing, carrying faint hints of fresh rain.
He knelt before her. "Is there a place I can help?" he asked, mindful of yesterday's misstep.
She regarded him with slate‐gray eyes that seemed to measure the weight of his soul. "A scorpion has entered the camp. It stung one of our children." She pointed to a small cot near the fire, where a boy lay, eyelids fluttering. Basha dropped a dollop of the herbal paste onto a cloth and pressed it over a red welt above the boy's ankle.
Aiman's heart stuttered. "I—I can help keep the scorpions away." He raised his small hands, recalling Chapter 23—soft gusts guiding wolves. He inhaled, closing his eyes. The desert wind responded, swirling around his toes, eager to obey.
He exhaled in a controlled pulse—a gentle breeze meant to chase scorpions from the camp's edge without harming insects who served the nomads. But the night air was chaotic: multiple currents converged. His gust, calmer than any before, flickered as a harsh wind from the deeper desert slammed into it.
Instead of a gentle nudge, a sudden vortex formed at his feet, stirring a swirl of sand and scraping across the sand-scorched rocks. The scorpion he'd meant to steer away scrambled forward—and before Aiman could react, its tail arched, then dipped, striking the tender ankle of the injured child, sending a piercing cry through the night.
Aiman's stomach twisted. He rushed forward, breath catching as the boy's mother wailed and tried to comfort him. Basha dropped her herbal paste, springing to her feet with practiced speed. Aiman knelt beside the child, who cried out in pain, tears staining his dusty cheeks.
"I'm sorry," Aiman whispered, pressing a hand to the boy's shoulder. Guilt knotted his chest into steel. He closed his eyes, recalling the lesson from Chapter 9—precision over force, compassion over haste.
Basha bent over the child and examined the sting, her fingers gentle but firm. She hissed at the swelling already forming. "Aiman, your current—too strong. You pushed sand into shadows where the scorpion hid. Now, he's wounded more."
Aiman's cheeks burned. "What—what can I do?" His voice trembled.
She handed him a handful of crushed cactus pulp. "Hold this," she said. "Let its juices draw the poison. Then keep the area cool with a whisper of wind—no more than a sigh."
Aiman nodded. He drew in a shaky breath, focusing on the child's wound. He lowered his palms an inch above the boy's ankle. His mind conjured the gentlest swirl—one that lifted nothing but carried freshness to the skin. The air wavered, cool as morning dew, brushing the child's wound and easing his cries into soft moans.
Basha watched, nodding approval. "Good. That is enough." She pressed the cactus pulp into the stinging welt, binding it with a clean strip of cloth. "Keep him still. He must rest."
Aiman sat back on his heels, heart pounding. The nomad mother pressed the boy's head to her chest, offering soft words. Aflame with shame and guilt, Aiman felt a presence at his side. The Gale Sage knelt beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You sought to protect, and though your current was too strong, you learned at last to temper it."
Aiman let out a breath he didn't realize he'd held. "I thought—"
The Sage shook his head. "Good intentions can mislead until precision is found. But now you have guided truly: gentle wind, healing coolness."
Basha stood and brushed her skirts free of dust. "Stay with the boy until sunrise. The scorpion's venom is strongest at night." She turned to the Sage. "Thank you for bringing him here. Without water and wind, many would suffer."
The Sage inclined his head, eyes on Aiman. "Your heart guided you. Let this night teach restraint, and dawn will bring balance."
Across the camp, embers glowed as nomads settled into their tents, offering quiet prayers for the injured child. Aiman knelt beside the boy's cot and listened to his shallow breaths. Outside, the desert wind eased into a gentle sigh, as though apologizing.
Aiman's gaze drifted to the moonlit dunes beyond the camp. Tomorrow, he would rise with the sun, stepping into the pale light with both humility and resolve. For now, under the blanket of stars, he remained at the scorpion's side—holding a cool wind and a hopeful heart until dawn.