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The wind had always listened to Elias. Even before he knew why, he could feel it watching, waiting, curling around his fingertips like a restless spirit.
In his quiet village, nestled between the mountains, no one spoke of magic. It was something from the old stories, whispered by grandmothers to lull children to sleep. But Elias knew better. When he was six, a storm had answered his cry of fear. When he was ten, a breeze had lifted him high enough to pluck an apple from the tallest branch. And now, at thirteen, the wind did not just listen—it obeyed.
One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Elias stood on the cliffs above the sea, his heart thrumming like a bird in a cage. His village was in danger. A warlord from the east was marching toward them, his soldiers leaving ruin in their wake.
Elias closed his eyes.
He let the wind weave around him, let it hum through his veins like an untamed melody. He did not command it—no, the wind was not something to be ruled. It was something to be understood. And so, he whispered. Not with words, but with feeling, with the desperate hope that his home would not fall.
The sky darkened.
A great gale surged from the cliffs, sweeping across the fields, shaking the earth with its fury. The warlord’s army was caught in its grasp, their torches snuffed, their march thrown into chaos. The wind howled, carrying their fear, their cries, until they turned back—until they ran.
Elias opened his eyes. The village was safe. The wind had answered.
And for the first time, he understood—he was not just a boy who could call the wind.
He was the one who wove it.
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