The narrow walls of the canyon rose on either side like ancient guardians, funneling the desert breeze into a steady, scorching gale. Aiman shaded his eyes as he stepped into the canyon's mouth, the sun's light glinting off pale sandstone and setting the air shimmering with heat. The Gale Sage walked beside him, staff in hand, carrying a small wooden box wrapped in tattered cloth.
"Are you certain this will work?" Aiman asked, brushing a bead of sweat from his brow. Even after mastering desert vortices, the thought of forging a weapon felt momentous—like combining his very essence with a piece of steel.
The Sage offered a small, amused smile. "I've watched your growth, Aiman. You've tamed desert winds and guided sandstorms. Now, we shape them into steel. That core," he tapped the box, "came from Windstead—a tempered alloy that survived the hottest furnaces. It's ready for your touch."
Aiman's heartbeat ratcheted upward. He knelt and unwrapped the cloth, revealing a solid steel ingot—blackened at the ends, yet still gleaming where faint traces of silver peeked through. His fingers trembled as he lifted it. "It's… sturdy," he said, turning it over in his hands.
"Sturdy," the Sage agreed, "but not yet a Stormscythe." He led Aiman deeper into the canyon, where a natural alcove formed a shallow pit surrounded by smooth, heat-scarred stone. A dried bed of brush and small bones lay to one side—evidence that this spot had once served as a hearth or primitive forge.
The Sage set the ingot in the center of the pit. "Stand where the wind's current flows strongest," he instructed, pointing to a narrow gap between two boulders. "Here, the desert wind pours in with enough heat to glow steel red-hot. Your task is to summon and hold a sustained vortex around the ingot. That's how we infuse wind's essence into the metal."
Aiman nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He planted his staff at the edge of the pit and closed his eyes. Inhale… exhale… recalling every lesson about stillness before motion. He felt the wind's hum beneath his feet—an eager undercurrent that recognized opportunity.
With a slow breath, he let his palms rise, cupping the air. The vortex formed quietly at first, a thin braid of swirling sand that danced around the steel. As he channeled more of his Æthercoil into the swirl, it thickened into a towering spiral of hot wind and dust, funneling straight through the pit and lifting embers of dried brush. The air around him grew incandescent: a ring of red-orange light shimmered around the ingot.
Aiman's breath caught. The steel began to glow, first dim ember, then fierce crimson. He tilted his head, sensing the metal's heat radiating outward. "It's—hotter than any forge I've felt," he murmured, fingering the wind that roared at his ankles.
The Sage nodded approvingly. "Perfect, Aiman. Now maintain that vortex for as long as you can. We need the metal malleable for hammering."
Aiman braced himself, planting one foot on a stable patch of sandstone and splaying his arms wide. He let breath flow in a slow, steady rhythm—stillness… summon… sustain. The wind coiled around the ingot, beating the glowing steel until its surface shimmered like molten glass.
For a moment, Aiman felt a flicker of panic—could he truly hold this without faltering? He recalled the sand wraith, the scorpion, Suri's fevered face. Each misstep had taught him restraint, taught him that wind obeyed only when guided by a clear heart. He willed his pulse to steady, closing his eyes and letting the desert's hush cradle his intent.
When he opened them, the vortex was a steadfast column of heat and light. He leaned forward, gathering the first set of iron-tipped hammers laid out beside him. The Sage had placed three hammers of varying weight—each one used to shape the steel at different stages.
"Start with the heaviest," the Sage instructed, nodding toward the largest hammer. "Strike when the blade's glow is brightest. Your timing must match the wind's flow; otherwise, you risk cold spots that fracture the steel."
Aiman lifted the hammer above his head, staff tucked under his arm for balance. The heat radiated from the ingot, shimmering in his vision. He drew a deep breath—stillness within—then swung. The hammer fell with a sharp clang, echoing off the canyon walls. A spark of golden sand rained down as the metal groaned under pressure.
He swung again, each strike hammering the steel into a rough blade shape. White-hot grits spat outward, flickering like fireflies. Each time he paused, the vortex's glow flickered, reminding him to immediately guide wind back to the steel's heart. With every breath, he shaped the metal's shape and its essence.
Minutes—or maybe an hour—passed before the ingot took on the silhouette of a blade: long and curving, reminiscent of a crescent moon. Its surface pulsed with a molten sheen. Aiman felt exhilaration churn in his chest, accompanied by a fierce pride: this was his power made manifest.
"Now," the Sage called, stepping forward, "pitch it into the cooling basin."
Beside the pit lay a shallow trough filled with water and crushed mint leaves—Basha's concoction for gentle cooling. Aiman wiped sweat from his temples, then lifted the blade with both hands. He felt the metal's heat through semi-gloves, as though it were alive and eager to be shaped. With a quick exhale, he plunged the blade into the water.
A hiss filled the canyon, steam billowing into swirling clouds that drowned out all sound. The cool vapor brushed Aiman's face—an abrupt shock after the forge's heat. When the blade reappeared, its surface had dulled to a dark steel grey, but faint patterns—runic swirls—glowed softly beneath the newly forged steel.
The Sage nodded, eyes gleaming. "The runes etched themselves through the Æthercoil infusion. Now, heat again." He gestured to the pit. "One more cycle, to lock the runes and remove brittleness."
Aiman set the blade on a nearby rack and returned it to the furnace vortex. The cycle repeated: wind red-hot, hammering strikes, and another rush into the cooling basin. This time, the runic swirls burned bright silver against the dark metal. Aiman sensed the blade's latent energy vibrating under his palm—a gentle hum of wind waiting to be set free.
When the second cooling concluded, Aiman laid the blade on a flat table of stone. He took a long, steady breath and lifted the final, light hammer—designed for refining edges. With careful, deliberate taps, he flaked away uneven ridges, smoothing the curve into a razor-sharp edge. Each tap was guided by a faint gust he summoned beneath his hands, ensuring the steel's integrity remained intact.
He straightened, holding the curved blade up to the slanting light. The runic patterns shimmered like rippling water. The curvature was perfect—sleek, deadly, beautiful. Aiman ran a gloved finger along its length, feeling a faint tug of wind wrap around the edge. His heart swelled.
The Gale Sage approached, placing a hand on the center of the blade. "You have done well." He closed his eyes, letting the wind swirl around him. When he opened them, he whispered, "From this day forth, this weapon shall be called the Stormscythe."
Aiman's blood hummed at the name. He tested the balance, swinging the glaive in a slow arc. The blade sliced through the air effortlessly, trailing a faint ribbon of wind that teased the canyon walls. He felt the weapon's latent current—like a heartbeat reciprocating his own.
Pride and awe washed over him. His words caught in his throat. "It… it's perfect."
The Sage bowed his head, lips curling into a gentle smile. "A weapon of wind is more than steel shaped by fire. It carries a piece of its forger's heart." He paused, studying Aiman's face. "Remember this: a blade that channels wind can cut outward—and inward. Keep your heart steady, or it will cut you."
Aiman met the Sage's gaze. "I understand," he said softly, cradling the Stormscythe in both hands. The wind responded, stirring a gentle swirl around the blade, as though acknowledging its new master.
They stood side by side in the canyon's hush, the Stormscythe humming with potential. Beyond the walls, the desert wind drifted in, ready to carry them further on their journey—toward the Verdant Labyrinth, toward new battles, and toward the destiny that lay beyond every dune.