Dawn came differently the day Aetos began formal training. The sky painted itself in shades of rose and amber as Master Zephyrus himself arrived at the boy's chamber, his footsteps silent on the ancient stones. He found him already awake and dressed in the simple grey training robes, practically vibrating with barely contained excitement.
"Today I learn to fly?" Aetos asked hopefully, his storm-grey eyes bright with anticipation.
"Today," Zephyrus said with a gentle, knowing smile that held centuries of teaching wisdom, "you learn to breathe."
The training courtyard occupied the temple's eastern terrace, a sacred space open to the endless sky but cleverly protected from the strongest mountain winds by ancient architectural design. Ancient stones worn smooth by generations of students' feet formed a perfect circle, each one placed with deliberate care by the temple's founders. Here, countless pneuma warriors had taken their first tentative steps toward mastery, their sweat and dedication soaked into the very stones.
Aetos was the youngest by at least two years—a break with tradition that had the entire temple talking.
Six other beginning students waited in the courtyard with poorly concealed curiosity—children aged seven to ten who had shown pneuma potential during the traditional testing ceremonies. They watched with mixture of fascination and some resentment as Master Zephyrus led in a boy who looked barely old enough to dress himself.
"Why does he get special treatment?" whispered Markos, a sturdy nine-year-old student with arms already showing the muscle of farm work.
"Because," Zephyrus said, having heard the whisper with ears trained by decades of catching students' murmurs, "young Aetos has already manifested abilities you will work years to achieve. But raw talent without discipline is like a wildfire—destructive and short-lived, consuming itself in its own heat. Here, all students learn control."
He gestured for them to form a circle with practiced authority. "The foundation of all pneuma arts is breath. Not the shallow, unconscious gasps of daily life, but the deep rhythm that connects us to the elements themselves. Watch carefully."
Zephyrus demonstrated the basic breathing pattern—a complex rhythm of inhalation, retention, and release that had been refined over centuries of practice. The pattern had names for each phase: Mountain's Embrace for the initial inhale, Cloud's Pause for the retention, and River's Release for the exhale. Most students took weeks to grasp even its simplest form.
Aetos fell into it instantly, as naturally as a river finds its course.
"I know this!" he exclaimed with delighted recognition. "The wind taught me when I was little! When I couldn't sleep!"
The other students exchanged incredulous glances. The wind taught him? What did that even mean?
"Show me," Zephyrus commanded, his voice carrying the weight of genuine interest.
Aetos closed his eyes and breathed. The change in the courtyard was immediate and unmistakable—the very air seemed to thicken, to become more present, more alive. Dust motes that had been drifting lazily froze in midair, then began dancing in complex patterns that matched the boy's inhalations and exhalations perfectly. The other students' own breathing unconsciously synchronised with his, as if his rhythm were a tide pulling them along whether they willed it or not.
"Remarkable," Zephyrus murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Then, louder: "But incomplete. You breathe with pure instinct, not understanding. Like a bird who flies magnificently but cannot explain the principles of flight. Today, we add knowledge to your gift."
The morning's lesson focused on the Floating Leaf exercise—a fundamental test of breath control that had frustrated students for generations. Each student received a dry autumn leaf and careful instructions to keep it aloft using only their breathing.
"No hands," Zephyrus instructed sternly. "No tricks or clever maneuvers. Simply breathe out with steady, unwavering control and keep the leaf floating before you. This builds the foundation for everything that follows."
The older students struggled immediately. Their breaths came in uncontrolled bursts—too strong, sending leaves flying across the courtyard like frightened birds, or too weak, letting them flutter to the ground like dying things. Frustration mounted visibly as leaves scattered across the ancient stones.
Aetos watched them with genuine puzzlement, his head tilted like a curious puppy, then looked at his own leaf. He breathed out gently, naturally, and the leaf rose to hover at eye level. But rather than simply floating in place, it began to dance—spiraling upward, dipping down, tracing elaborate figure-eights in the air.
"I said float, not perform a theatrical production," Zephyrus said, though his eyes crinkled with suppressed amusement.
"Sorry, Master." Aetos tried visibly to simplify, but the leaf continued its elaborate dance, now adding loop-de-loops. "It wants to play. Leaves get bored just floating in one place."
Markos threw his own leaf down in frustration, his face red. "He's doing something else! Some trick! It's not fair!"
"The only trick," Zephyrus said calmly, addressing all the students, "is perfect unity between breath and intent. Aetos, help Markos understand."
This was the real test—not of ability, but character. Would the prodigy lord his talent over others or share it generously?
Aetos immediately moved to sit beside the older boy without hesitation. "You're pushing too hard," he said earnestly, with the serious expression of a child sharing important wisdom. "The leaf is light—it wants to fly already. You just have to ask nicely."
"Ask nicely?" Markos scoffed, his pride stinging. "It's a leaf! A dead leaf!"
"Everything has a spirit," Aetos insisted, repeating something the wind had whispered to him years ago during a storm. "Watch—breathe like you're singing a lullaby to a baby, not blowing out birthday candles."
He demonstrated, his breath so perfectly controlled it was barely visible. Yet the leaf responded like a trained pet, floating gently upward. Markos tried to imitate him, and while his leaf only fluttered weakly, it was definite progress.
The lesson continued for hours under the climbing sun. By midday, with sweat beading on foreheads, most students could keep their leaves aloft for seconds at a time. Aetos, meanwhile, had progressed to controlling multiple leaves simultaneously, creating aerial formations that looked like flocks of tiny birds migrating across an invisible sky.
Master Zephyrus called him aside while the others practiced with renewed determination.
"Your instincts are extraordinary," the master said quietly. "But you must learn to walk before you run, to crawl before you walk. These exercises seem simple to you, perhaps even boring, but they build foundations for techniques that could destroy you if performed incorrectly."
"Like what?" Aetos asked eagerly, bouncing on his toes.
Zephyrus considered carefully, then made a decision. "Watch carefully. Do not attempt to copy. Do not even think about trying this alone."
The master picked up a single leaf and breathed. But this was breathing as Aetos had never witnessed—complex rhythms that seemed to pull at reality itself, to twist the very fabric of air. The leaf didn't just float; it transformed, edges becoming sharp as the finest steel, spinning with lethal speed that hummed ominously before Zephyrus let it settle gently back to earth.
"The Cutting Wind technique," he explained soberly. "Master it too young, without proper preparation, and you'll slice your own pneuma channels to ribbons. This is why we build slowly, carefully, with patience. Do you understand?"
Aetos nodded solemnly, but Zephyrus caught the calculating glint in his storm-coloured eyes. The boy would try it anyway, probably that very night. The master sighed internally. Teaching normal students was so much simpler.
The afternoon brought meditation practice and philosophy lessons. Here, finally, Aetos struggled more visibly. Sitting still when the wind called through the windows? Discussing ancient theory when he could be touching sky? The other students took some small satisfaction in seeing the prodigy fidget and squirm like any normal child.
"Why must I know the names of ancient masters?" Aetos complained, his voice carrying genuine confusion. "The wind doesn't care about names or dates."
"Because," Zephyrus explained with infinite patience, "those masters discovered truths that took entire lifetimes to understand. You can learn from their hard-won wisdom or spend decades making their same painful mistakes."
By day's end, all the students were thoroughly exhausted—except Aetos. He bounced around Zephyrus as they walked back to the main temple, pepper him with questions.
"Tomorrow can we learn the Cutting Wind? Or the Storm Calling that Brother Lucas mentioned? Oh! What about the Eagle's Flight technique I heard Brother Thomas discussing?"
"Tomorrow," Zephyrus said firmly, hiding his amusement, "we practice the Floating Leaf again."
"Again?" Aetos's face fell dramatically. "But I can already—"
"You can make leaves dance like festival performers. Tomorrow, you'll learn to make them float completely motionless. Perfect stillness is infinitely harder than any dance, young storm."
That night, Matthias found Aetos on his familiar windowsill perch, but this time practicing breathing exercises with intense concentration. A dozen leaves hung in the air around him, perfectly still despite the night breeze that should have scattered them.
"Master Zephyrus was right," the boy said wonderingly, not breaking his concentration. "Stillness is much, much harder. But I think the leaves appreciate the rest after all that dancing."
Matthias smiled fondly. The storm-child was learning discipline, one careful breath at a time. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new frustrations, but tonight, even the wind seemed content to be still.