Outside, the wind howled. It was less the baying of a beast than the high, wild laugh of an old friend, driving them on. The wind did what she willed it, had since she was a child.
Leigh Bardugo in The Severed Moon (A Year-Long Journal of Magic)
She was a wind weaver. People said that she could travel the places across sea without even stepping on the land itself. She could also hear the foreign music that had been her favorite beyond horizon without even knowing who was playing the rhythm. But the scariest of all, her power stretched out till she could see the spinning web of fate days ahead. It was a foggy vision that covered floating white clouds and stirring dusts but if she looked through it hard enough, a glimpse of what was coming at its clearest. For the wind listened and obeyed her like the flowing blood in veins, truthfully vital to keep a beating heart lives. The wind never really went anywhere and cycled throughout its paved route. It stayed between the Earth and the Sky, trapped between the pieces of rule claimed by deities. The wind did not belong to anyone but surely; it was hers.
Ae Astra 