Winter's first snow dusted Acorn Village, crisp and white, as the solstice approached. The village buzzed with excitement—the feast was the biggest celebration of the year, a time to share food, exchange small gifts, and forget the hardships of the past months. For Leon, it was a chance to celebrate how far he'd come: from a silent, vacant-eyed child to an apprentice herbalist, a weaver, a fisherman.
Garin hunted a wild boar, its meat rich and dark, and Erika baked honey cake, her hands sticky with sweet glaze. Leon helped haul the boar to the village square, where a communal fire crackled in a stone pit. Villagers gathered, singing old songs in a dialect thick with forest vowels, passing around mugs of herb-infused mead.
Eldrin came too, wrapped in a thick wool cloak that swamped his small frame, carrying a jar of mead he'd brewed from wild berries and mountain herbs. Leon helped him settle on a wooden bench by the fire, smiling as the old man nodded at villagers who greeted him—rare, but not unwelcome. For a moment, the rumors of him being a "witch" faded, replaced by the warmth of community.
When the boar was roasted, the village elder carved slices, starting with the children and the elderly. Leon took a bite, the meat juicy and flavorful, and felt a warmth in his chest—this was home. Not the cold hotel rooms of his former life, but laughter, shared bread, the smell of fire and honey.
After the feast, villagers exchanged gifts: hand-carved wooden toys, jars of honey, woven mats. Leon gave Eldrin his finest sieve, the weave tight and perfect, and the old man tucked it into his cloak, a faint nod of approval. Isabella gave Leon a cloth doll stitched from red linen, its face lopsided but smiling, and he hugged her tightly.
As the sun set, painting the sky in streaks of pink and orange, Leon wandered back to Eldrin's cottage with the old man, the snow crunching under their boots. "Thank you for coming," Leon said softly.
Eldrin grunted. "It's not every day the village feeds you boar." But his eyes were soft, the lines on his face less sharp.
A week later, while sorting through Eldrin's old supplies in the cellar—jar after jar of dried herbs, bundles of twine, rusted tools—Leon's foot hit something hard beneath a loose stone. Curious, he knelt down and brushed away the dirt, revealing a small wooden box, its lid carved with the image of a raven.
"Master, what's this?" he called, holding it up.
Eldrin appeared at the top of the stairs, his boots dripping with melted snow. He glanced at the box, and his face softened—a rare expression, one Leon had never seen before. "That was Kael's," he said, descending the stairs slowly. "My last apprentice. He brought those seeds back from the southern Whispering Forest, years ago. Tried to plant them, but they never sprouted—too cold, he said."
Leon opened the box carefully. Inside were a set of small, sharp knives, a vial of clear liquid that glowed faintly in the dim light, and a small pouch of seeds—smooth, dark, etched with tiny patterns. "Camellia seeds," Eldrin said, his voice quiet. "The oil is good for cooking, for healing—Kael used to press it himself to treat wounds."
Leon's heart raced. "Can I try planting them? In the cellar? It's warm here, away from the frost."
Eldrin hesitated, then nodded. "They're yours. Kael would have wanted someone to try."
That night, Leon planted the seeds in a wooden box filled with rich, dark soil, setting it in the cellar's warmest corner, near the candle that burned day and night to keep herbs from molding. He watered them carefully, using rainwater he'd collected in a clay jar, and checked on them every morning, his heart hopeful.
A week later, tiny green shoots poked through the soil. Leon cheered, rushing to tell Eldrin. The old man smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and patted his head. "Kael would be proud."
Leon smiled back. The seeds were a promise—a promise of growth, of new beginnings, of things yet to come.