With his evenings free, Leon's thoughts turned to food. Herbs could heal, letters could inform, but neither filled bellies. The village diet was sparse—bread, porridge, occasional meat from Garin's hunts. Leon craved something more, something fresh.
Fish.
In his former life, he'd fished with his grandfather, casting lines into a quiet pond behind their house. He remembered the feel of the rod, the thrill of a bite, the taste of fried fish with herbs. Here, the river flowed past Acorn Village, quiet and untapped—few villagers fished, finding game easier to hunt.
But Leon had no rod, no line, no hook.
He approached Eldrin one morning, after finishing his letter practice. "Master, do you have any fishing hooks? Or line?"
Eldrin shook his head. "I've never fished. Fish spoil quickly. And I don't care for the taste."
Leon's shoulders fell. "I thought… maybe we could trade herbs for hooks in Sarneth Town?"
Eldrin hesitated, then said: "I'm going to Sarneth tomorrow to sell herbs. I'll look for hooks. But you're too young to come with me."
"Please," Leon begged. "I can take care of myself. I just want to see the town."
"No," Eldrin said, firm. "Finish the first five sections of Foundations of Herbal Practice. Memorize them. When I'm satisfied, I'll take you."
Leon swallowed. The sections were dense, filled with herb names and their uses, but he nodded. "I'll do it."
That evening, Leon wandered to the river alone, sitting on the broad stone where he'd stared into the water for weeks before the thunder. The current glinted in the fading light, and he imagined fish darting beneath the surface—silver carp, trout, anything fresh.
A memory surfaced: his grandfather's wooden hooks, carved from willow branches, sharpened to a point, bent into shape over fire. No iron needed—just wood, patience, and a little ingenuity.
Leon stood. If he couldn't get iron hooks, he'd make wooden ones.
He ran home, finding Garin splitting firewood. "Father, what wood bends well? For a fishing hook."
Garin paused, amused. "Wooden hook? Oak. It holds its shape. There's a young oak across the river."
Garin took him to the tree—a sturdy sapling with broad, lobed leaves—and broke off a thin branch. Back home, Leon peeled the bark, carved a thin sliver tapered at both ends, and heated it over the hearth to set the shape. Garin helped him bend it into a rough hook, his calloused hands steadying the wood.
"It should work," Leon said, testing the flex of the hook. "When the fish swallows the bait, the wood springs open, catching in its mouth."
Garin nodded, doubtful but curious. "We'll see."
Erika and Isabella returned with coarse hemp twine—all they had—and Isabella found a short pole in the shed. Leon tied the hook to the twine, added a reed float, and stared at his creation: crude, fragile, but hopeful.
At dawn, Leon rose early, practiced his slow exercises (the ones he'd told his parents Eldrin taught him), then grabbed his rod and soaked grain for bait. Isabella appeared at the gate, her eyes bright. "Can I come?"
Leon hesitated, then nodded. "Stay close."
They walked upstream to a bend thick with reeds—shallow water, plenty of cover for fish. Leon baited the hook with grain and a grasshopper Isabella caught, then cast. The float bobbed on the surface.
They waited for hours. Isabella grew restless, picking at reeds, but Leon stayed still, his eyes fixed on the water. The bait vanished twice—stolen by small fish, he guessed—but no bites.
Then the float dipped, fast and sharp. Leon pulled too early, empty-handed.
Again.
By midday, he was frustrated, but determined. He adjusted the hook, hiding it fully inside the grasshopper, and cast one last time.
The float trembled. Once. Twice. Then it vanished.
Leon hauled back, the line going taut, vibrating with life. The fish surged, powerful and sudden, nearly yanking the pole from his hands. "Isabella! Help!"
She grabbed the pole, her small hands tight around the wood. The hemp twine sang—then snapped.
They fell back, staring at the frayed end. "That was a big one," Isabella said softly.
Leon nodded, disappointment burning—but beneath it, a spark of hope. The river had fish. His method worked.
As they walked home, Leon replayed the moment: too much force, too thin line. Next time, he'd use thicker line. Next time, he'd be ready.
The river had answered once. It would answer again.