The next morning, Leon arrived at Eldrin's cottage with the frayed hemp twine in his hand, the memory of the snapped line and escaped carp still fresh. "My line broke," he said, holding it out. "The fish was too big—hemp isn't strong enough."
Eldrin glanced at the twine, then reached into a wooden chest tucked against the wall and pulled out a coil of thicker, sturdier thread—linen, dyed a dull brown. "I use this to tie herb bundles. It won't snap easily."
Leon's eyes lit up. "Can I have it? I'll work extra—clean the cellar, dry the moss you gathered, memorize every herb in that basket." He nodded at a wicker basket overflowing with green leaves, their scents mixing into a sharp, earthy blend.
Eldrin studied him, his gaze sharp as a flint knife. "Linen isn't free. I trade dried herbs for it in Sarneth Town. You want it, you earn it."
For three days, Leon worked until dusk. He scrubbed the cellar's stone floors until his knees ached, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and dried fungi. He hung moss to dry in the rafters, turning it every hour to prevent rot. And each evening, he sat with the basket of herbs, reciting their properties—bitterleaf daisy for swelling, wolfroot for infection, yellow hempgrass for anesthesia—until Eldrin nodded in approval.
On the third night, Eldrin handed him the coil of linen thread, his gnarled fingers brushing Leon's. "Don't waste it. And if you catch a fish, bring me a portion. I'm curious to taste what's worth all this fuss."
Leon rushed home, where Isabella waited by the gate, her face bright with anticipation. "Tomorrow at dawn," he said, winding the linen around his wrist. "We won't let it get away this time."
Dawn broke cold and misty. Leon reinforced the line with two strands of linen, tying it to the wooden hook with a knot he'd learned from Garin's hunting gear, and baited it with a grasshopper and soaked grain. He cast, the reed float bobbing gently on the water's surface.
Hours passed. The mist lifted, the sun warming their shoulders, but the float remained still. Isabella grew restless, picking at reeds, but Leon stayed steady, his eyes fixed on the water. Then the float vanished.
Leon grabbed the pole, the line pulling so hard he nearly fell forward. Isabella screamed, grabbing the pole with both hands. The fish thrashed beneath the surface, sending up sprays of foam, but Leon didn't yank—he let the fish tire itself out, his muscles burning, until at last, a silver carp surfaced, its scales glinting in the sun.
They carried it home triumphantly, drawing stares from the villagers. Erika fried it in lard, seasoning it with wild garlic, and Leon saved a portion for Eldrin, wrapping it in a large leaf.
When he arrived at the cottage the next morning, Eldrin took the fish without a word—but Leon saw the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A week later, Eldrin returned from Sarneth Town, his pack bulging. He pulled out a handful of iron hooks—small, sharp, far better than the wooden one—and a thin book bound in worn leather. "River Fishing for Beginners," he said, tossing it to Leon. "Found it at a stall by the blacksmith's. Read it. Learn it."
Leon held the book reverently, his fingers brushing the rough pages. "Thank you, Master."
Eldrin grunted, but his tone was softer than usual. "Don't forget the fish. That carp was… edible."
Leon laughed. He wouldn't.