The morning mist clung to the Whispering Forest's outer edge, dampening Leon's hair as he tramped beside Isabella and a small group of village children. Spring had unfurled fully, painting the woods in vivid greens, and the air hummed with bees and the rustle of new leaves. For Leon, the trip was more than a game—after weeks of fishing and herb lessons, he craved fresh forage, something sweet to break the monotony of dark bread and broth.
"Race you to the old oak!" Isabella shouted, her red linen dress a bright flash against the muted undergrowth. Leon laughed, chasing after her, his boots crunching on fallen twigs. The other children—Bart, Lila, and Tomas—followed, their chatter echoing through the trees.
The forest smelled of wet bark and loam, the air cool on his skin. Leon's eyes sharpened, scanning the underbrush for anything useful: edible berries, herbs Eldrin might value, or the wild sheepfruit Isabella had rambled about—sweet, crimson berries that grew on thorny bushes, a rare treat in the village.
They wandered beyond the familiar paths, into a section where the trees thinned and sunlight dappled the ground. It was here that Bart froze, pointing at a cluster of dark red fruit clinging to a bush tangled with needle-sharp thorns. "Sheepfruit!" he yelled, his voice cracking with excitement.
Leon hurried over, his heart lifting. The berries were plump, their skins glossy, nestled among thorns that glinted like tiny knives. He reached carefully, avoiding the sharp points, and plucked one, popping it into his mouth. It burst with a tangy sweetness, far richer than any berry he'd tasted in the village. "Careful," he warned, "the thorns are sharp—pull the fruit gently, don't yank."
They harvested slowly, Isabella using a stick to knock the fruit free, Leon catching it in his basket. As he reached for a low-hanging cluster, his hand brushed against something hard—smooth, round, hanging from a branch above the bush.
A wasp nest.
The size of a man's fist, papery and tan, with wasps buzzing angrily around the entrance. The children froze. "We should go," Isabella whispered, her eyes wide. "Wasps sting—bad."
Leon studied the nest. In his former life, he'd seen villagers harvest wasp larvae as a protein-rich delicacy, fried until crispy. Here, in a village where meat was a luxury, it was a feast waiting to be claimed. "Wait," he said, his voice steady. "If we're careful, we can take the nest. The larvae are good to eat—filling, like meat."
Bart wrinkled his nose. "Eat wasp babies? That's gross."
"It's not gross," Leon said, though he'd never tried them himself. "It's smart. And they're safe—if we smoke the wasps first." He found a long stick, wrapped dry grass around the end, and lit it with a flint and steel Garin had given him for emergencies. The smoke curled upward, thick and acrid.
The wasps buzzed fiercely, but most flew away, driven by the smoke. Leon knocked the nest free with a quick tap of the stick, catching it in his basket. "Run!" he shouted, grinning. "Before they come back!"
They raced back toward the village, laughing as the basket bounced against Leon's hip, heavy with sheepfruit and the wasp nest. That night, Leon fried the larvae in a thin layer of lard—Erika protested at first, but Garin laughed and let him—and sprinkled them with salt. The children gathered around the hearth, hesitant at first, then eager as the scent of crisped protein filled the cottage.
"It's good," Isabella said, her eyes wide. "Really good—like tiny pieces of bacon."
Leon smiled. It wasn't fish, but it was something—proof that the forest gave as much as it took. As he ate, he thought of the thorns, the wasps, the sweet sheepfruit. Survival wasn't just about enduring. It was about seizing what the world offered—even if it came with stings and scratches.