A week into his apprenticeship, Leon packed breakfast into a wooden food box—bread, dried berries, a small bowl of stew—and walked to Eldrin's cottage. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine from the Whispering Forest. Eldrin was already sorting dried wolfroot on the courtyard table, his hands moving slowly but precisely.
After breakfast, as Leon ground bitterleaf daisy into powder with a stone mortar, he hesitated, then asked: "Master, can you read?"
Eldrin glanced up, his bushy white eyebrows raised. "I learned in the provincial city, when I was an apprentice myself. Why?"
"Can you teach me?" Leon said. "If I can read, I can study your books. I won't have to ask you every question." He'd seen the thin leather-bound volumes on Eldrin's shelf—worn, faded, filled with knowledge he craved. In a world without schools, without books for common folk, literacy was a key to something more.
Eldrin considered this, his brow furrowed. "Paper is scarce. Ink is scarcer. But…" He trailed off, looking at Leon's earnest face. "Very well. Mornings: letters. Afternoons: herbs. Fetch a table."
Leon hurried inside, returning with a small wooden table. Eldrin brought a book—Foundations of Herbal Practice—and a few sheets of rough papyrus. "This has thousands of words," he said, setting it down. "We'll start here. Paper is expensive, so we'll use it sparingly."
"Wait," Leon said. "What if we use sand? A sand tray. We can write with sticks. Save paper for what's important."
Eldrin raised an eyebrow. "Writing in sand is not the same as writing on paper. Your hand will grow lazy."
"I don't need beautiful script," Leon said. "I just don't want to be ignorant."
Eldrin chuckled—a dry, rare sound. "Ignorant. A good word. Accurate."
By midday, they'd built a sand tray: a shallow wooden frame nailed together from old planks, filled with fine river sand. Eldrin handed him a thin stick. "Write here. No waste. No mistakes that can't be brushed away."
The script of Ethos was phonetic, tied to sound rather than meaning, and Leon picked it up quickly. Each morning, they studied letters—L-E-O-N, W-O-L-F-R-O-O-T, B-I-T-T-E-R-L-E-A-F D-A-I-S-Y—until his hand moved smoothly in the sand. Afternoons were for herbs: sorting dried leaves, grinding roots, memorizing properties. Leon learned that yellow hempgrass was mildly toxic, that wolfroot drew out infection, that bitterleaf daisy could reduce fever.
That night, Leon raced home, excitement bubbling. "Sister," he called, finding Isabella mending a tear in her dress by the fire.
"Call me your sister," she said, not looking up.
Leon sighed, then grinned. "Sister. I learned to read today. I can write my name. And I asked Master Eldrin if you could learn too."
Isabella's head snapped up. Her eyes were wide, hopeful, but she tried to hide it behind a scowl. "Why would I want to learn to read? It's not like I'll be a healer."
"Because it's useful," Leon said. "Because you can read letters from faraway. Because you'll know what's in Eldrin's books, too." He hesitated, then added softly: "Because I want to share it with you."
Isabella's resolve wavered. "Fine," she said, pretending to be annoyed. "Teach me. But if it's boring, I'm stopping."
Leon laughed. That night, by firelight, he taught her the first letters—I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A—drawing them in the dirt with a stick. She stumbled at first, her lines uneven, but she didn't quit. By the time Erika called them inside, she could spell her name.
The next morning, Leon asked Eldrin if Isabella could join their lessons. Eldrin refused. "I don't like crowds," he said flatly. "Teach her yourself. It will help you remember."
As Leon's progress accelerated—his adult mind retaining details, his child's hands growing steady with practice—Eldrin adjusted their routine. Leon no longer needed to stay for supper; he could return home, teach Isabella, and rest. Meals were left in a food box, and Leon's evenings were spent by the fire, his sister leaning close as they practiced letters in a second sand tray Garin had made.
The days became full: dawn with Eldrin, herbs and letters; afternoon with remedies and preparation; evening with Isabella, sharing knowledge. Leon watched his sister's confidence grow, watched her face light up when she spelled a new word, and felt a warmth he hadn't known since waking in this world.
Knowledge wasn't just power. It was connection.