Midday heat shimmered across the dunes as Aiman and the Gale Sage pressed on, their footsteps stirring sand into drifting ripples. The sun hovered directly above, its glare turning the world into a vast mirror of gold and white. Aiman squinted, bracing against the heat that felt like a living thing pressing down on him. He tugged at his staff, fingering the carved glyph near its base—a reminder of the stillness that lay beneath even the desert's fiercest blaze.
Ahead, where the horizon wavered in a haze of heat, Aiman spotted what looked like a cluster of palm trees encircling a sparkling pool of water. His breath caught. An oasis—real and life‐giving—would be a miracle in this scorched land.
"Look," he whispered, pointing. "An oasis."
The Sage paused, shading his eyes with one hand. He studied the distant green stand, then closed his eyes, feeling the air's subtle currents. A thin crease of his brow appeared. "Patience, Aiman. Not every mirage is truth. The desert is full of illusions."
Aiman's heart tightened, but his legs itched to move faster. "I—I'm thirsty." He lifted his face to the sun, tasting sweat on his lips.
The Sage nodded. "I know. But if we sprint toward a false hope, we risk collapse before we draw breath. Instead, come closer—let us determine if it is real."
Carefully, Aiman took slow, measured steps, using the Gale Turn pivot to keep his balance on the shifting sand. Each movement lifted a tiny swirl of wind, guiding his path. His feet sank slightly with each step, and he felt the desert's resistance beneath him.
When they were halfway to the "oasis," the shimmering image wavered. A cluster of palm fronds bent more like heat‐stressed straw than living leaves, and the "water" rippled without sound.
Aiman slowed, brow furrowed. "It's shifting."
The Sage stepped beside him, tracing a small glyph in the air that drew a slender ribbon of wind to lift sand from a nearby depression. The dust drifted, revealing nothing but baked earth beneath. He opened his eyes. "A mirage—a trick of heat and light. You see how the desert's breath can fool the eye?"
Aiman swallowed, disappointment flickering in his chest. He'd let hope carry him too far. He recalled the wolves and the orchard—lessons in precise guidance, not reckless pursuit.
"I'm sorry," Aiman said, voice quiet. "I thought… I thought it might be real."
The Sage placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hope can sustain you, but illusion can break your spirit. The desert's greatest lessons come from restraint."
Aiman studied the dunes where the palms had danced. The sun's glare intensified, and he wiped sweat from his brow. "Where do we go now?" he asked.
The Sage pointed west. "There's a small oasis, about two hours' walk from here—closer to the rocky ridge. It lies where the winds converge. If you guide them gently, they'll reveal the path."
Aiman squared his shoulders and nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment, sensing the faintest pull of wind from the ridge's direction—a cooler current than the sun‐scorched air around them. He drew in a slow breath, focusing on the wind's rhythm beneath his skin, recalling the Breath of Stillness.
When he exhaled, a gentle swirl formed at his feet, lifting a thin layer of sand and tracing a shimmering line toward a distant, craggy outcrop. It was subtle—no more than a whisper—but enough to chart a course.
The Sage watched with approving silence. "Follow that, and you'll find the real oasis. Remember, Aiman: desert wind responds to gentle coaxing. Never force it."
Aiman offered a determined nod and stepped forward, letting that whisper of wind guide each footfall. Behind him, the mirage of palms vanished into the heat haze—an illusion lost to the desert's shifting breath.
As he walked toward the cooler current's promise, he realized lessons came not only from success but from setbacks too. And in that desert expanse, guided by a flicker of genuine hope, he found the resolve to keep moving—one careful step, one gentle gust at a time.