A week after the thunder, Leon stood in the yard, watching Erika hang laundry on a line strung between two ginkgo trees. The village rumors had spread—whispers that a "foul taint" had clung to him, shaken loose by the storm—but he paid them no mind. What mattered was the decision he'd made: to learn from Eldrin, the village herbalist.
"Mother," he said, stepping closer, "I want to be Master Eldrin's apprentice. I want to learn healing."
Erika's hands stilled. She turned, her face hardening with instinctive fear. "No. Absolutely not."
"Why?" Leon asked, keeping his voice steady. He'd anticipated this—villagers spoke of Eldrin in hushed tones, calling him a witch, a hermit who dabbled in dark arts. But Leon had watched the old man treat Garin's arrow wound last winter, had seen him trade herbs for flour without demanding more than his due. He was the only healer for miles.
"People say things about him," Erika said, lowering her voice, as if the wind might carry her words to Eldrin's cottage half a mile away. "Terrible things. That he eats children's hearts. That he speaks to shadows."
"That's just stories," Leon said. "No one has ever seen him harm anyone. He helped Father. He heals the sick. Even if he is a witch—if that's what they call him—he's a good one."
"There are no good witches," Erika muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. But Leon saw the doubt in her eyes. She knew the truth of his words: life in Acorn Village was fragile. Hunting accidents, fevers, infected cuts—any of these could kill without proper care. Sarneth Town had healers, but it was a day's walk away—too far when every minute mattered.
"Father hunts in the Whispering Forest," Leon continued gently. "What if he's hurt and Eldrin is gone? What if no one knows how to treat him? Eldrin is old. If no one learns from him, his knowledge dies with him. I want to be that someone."
Erika fell silent, her gaze drifting to the distant outline of Eldrin's cottage, half-hidden by trees. She knew he spoke sense. For all the rumors, Eldrin had never turned anyone away in need.
"I'll talk to your father tonight," she said at last, turning back to the laundry. "But don't get your hopes up."
That evening, Garin sat Leon down by the fire, the flames casting warm light over his weathered face. "You're sure about this?" he asked. "You're not afraid of him?"
"People were afraid of me," Leon replied. "Until the thunder."
Garin smiled faintly, a rare softening of his sharp features. "Fair enough. But Eldrin's work is hard—long days, carrying heavy baskets, handling poisonous plants. Can you endure that?"
"I can," Leon said without hesitation.
At dawn three days later, they walked to Eldrin's cottage, Garin carrying a bundle of salted pork and a jug of home-brewed wheat ale—gifts fit for a master, worth more than words in a village where resources were scarce. The old man's home stood apart from the others, its yard strung with drying herbs that smelled of mint and bitter earth. When Eldrin opened the door, his white hair wild, his eyes clear and sharp as flint, Leon felt a flicker of nervousness.
"Garin," Eldrin said, his voice like gravel. "And the boy. What brings you here?"
"Master Eldrin," Garin said, his tone respectful, "my son wishes to study herbal medicine under you. He admires your knowledge, and we trust you with his education."
Eldrin's gaze shifted to Leon. "Why do you want this?"
"To heal," Leon said, meeting his eyes steadily. "To protect my family. To learn something that matters."
Eldrin studied him for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Come in."
The courtyard was a maze of dried herbs—bundles hanging from beams, trays of wolfroot and yellow hempgrass spread in the sun. Leon's eyes widened; he recognized a few from Eldrin's visits to the village, but most were strangers. Inside, the cottage was sparse: wooden shelves lined with clay jars, a table scarred by years of cutting, a small fire pit glowing softly.
"Sit," Eldrin said, motioning to rough wooden stools. "If you stay, you'll arrive at first light and leave after dark. You'll learn to identify herbs, dry them, grind them. You'll gather them in the Whispering Forest, and you'll clean my cottage, cook my meals. No complaints. No laziness. Can you do this?"
"Yes, Master," Leon said, his heart racing with excitement.
Eldrin nodded, as if weighing a decision he'd already made. "Knowledge that isn't passed on dies. I'll teach you. But if you slack, you're gone."
Garin thanked him, leaving the gifts, and Leon stayed behind. Eldrin led him to the yard, pointing to a bundle of green leaves. "Bitterleaf daisy. Flowers reduce swelling. Leaves aid the kidneys. Memorize it."
Leon leaned in, breathing in the sharp, earthy scent, committing the shape of the leaves—pointed, with tiny serrations—to memory. This was his chance—his first step toward more than just survival.