The days grew warmer, and Leon's fishing trips became a regular part of his routine. He caught carp and trout, selling the surplus to villagers for coins—enough to buy more linen thread and a small iron knife for carving better rods. But he wanted more—something that would help his family beyond just filling bellies, something that would earn him the kind of trust that came with solving real problems.
One afternoon, while mending a torn herb bundle for Eldrin, he noticed the old man staring at his hands. "You're steady with thread," Eldrin said, surprising him. "Ever woven?"
Leon shook his head. "Mother weaves cloth, but I've never tried."
Eldrin disappeared into the cottage, returning with a small wooden loom—rough-hewn, but sturdy, its frame made from twisted branches and twine. "I made this when I was your age. Weave mats. Nets. Useful things—things people will trade for."
Leon learned quickly, his fingers sore at first, his early mats lopsided and uneven. But he practiced night after night, after his herb lessons and fishing trips, until his hands moved on their own. By the end of the week, he'd woven a small mat—crude, but functional, the threads tight and even.
Eldrin inspected it, running a calloused finger over the weave. "Not bad. For a beginner."
Inspired, Leon turned to Kael's journal—found tucked in the cellar, the old apprentice's notes filled with sketches and ideas. One entry caught his eye: a linen sieve, woven with a tight, diagonal pattern that separated grain from chaff far better than the heavy wooden sieves the villagers used.
"I want to make one," Leon told Eldrin over supper, as they ate roasted trout and wild mushrooms.
Eldrin raised an eyebrow. "Wooden ones work."
"Not well," Leon said. "They're heavy. Clog easily. A linen sieve would be lighter, faster. I could sell them—help my family."
Eldrin nodded, his gaze approving. "Pattern's complex. Practice. I'll show you the warp and weft for tight weave."
For two weeks, Leon wove after his lessons. His first sieve was lopsided, the holes uneven, but he adjusted the tension of the thread, reweaving the pattern until it was perfect. He took it to the village miller, who tested it by sifting a handful of wheat—chaff fell cleanly through, leaving fine flour behind.
The miller bought it for five coins, his eyes wide. "Better than any wooden sieve I've got. Make more—bring them to me."
Soon, villagers were seeking him out: farmers wanting smaller holes for seeds, bakers needing larger sieves for flour, even the village elder asking for one to sift dried berries. Leon wove every evening, Isabella helping thread the loom's warp while he worked the weft. The coins added up, enough to buy a small bag of salt—a luxury his family rarely afforded—and a length of thicker linen for nets.
One day, Leon saw Isabella talking to a group of girls by the well, holding a small linen mat he'd woven for her. The girls admired it, their voices soft with envy, and Isabella's cheeks pinked with pride. Leon smiled. For the first time, he wasn't just surviving in Acorn Village—he was contributing. He was needed.
That evening, he began work on his biggest project yet: a small fishing net, woven with the tightest pattern he could manage. If it worked, he could catch more fish, faster—enough to feed his family and trade for more supplies. As he wove, the linen thread sliding through his fingers, he felt a quiet confidence. This was progress—slow, hard-won, but real.