The wheat fields blazed golden under the midday sun, the stalks heavy with grain that bowed toward the earth. Leon's back ached as he helped Garin cut stalks with a scythe, his small hands gripping the wooden handle until his knuckles whitened. The air shimmered with heat, and sweat streamed down his neck, soaking the collar of his linen tunic. Harvest was the hardest work of the year—endless, backbreaking, and unforgiving—but it was also the most vital. Without the wheat, the village would starve through winter.
By mid-morning, even the hardiest villagers were flagging. Erika wiped her brow with the back of her hand, her face flushed, while Isabella stumbled slightly as she carried a bundle of wheat to the cart. Leon paused, wiping sweat from his eyes, and thought of the tangy, crusty bread from his former life—sourdough, made with fermented dough that rose soft and flavorful, far better than the dense, gritty loaves they ate now. If he could make that here, it would not only taste better but fill bellies more fully, giving everyone strength for the harvest.
That evening, after the sun dipped below the hills, Leon approached Erika in the kitchen. "Mother, can I try making bread a different way? With fermented dough— it's softer, easier to eat."
Erika frowned, kneading coarse flour into a stiff paste with water. "Fermented dough? What does that mean?"
Leon explained carefully, using simple words: mix flour and water, let it sit for days until it bubbled and tangy, then use that "starter" to make bread that rose on its own. Erika was skeptical—waste flour on something untested when every grain was precious—but she saw the determination in Leon's eyes and relented, giving him a small bowl of flour and a clay jar of water.
He mixed the flour and water until smooth, then set the bowl in the warm corner of the kitchen, near the embers of the fire. Every morning, he fed it a handful more flour and water, watching as bubbles formed on the surface, a tangy scent filling the air—alive, fermenting, working. Isabella peeked at it daily, fascinated by the way it bubbled and grew. "It looks like it's breathing," she whispered.
After a week, the starter was ready—frothy, tangy, alive. Leon mixed it with more flour and water, kneading the dough until it was elastic, then left it to rise overnight. The next morning, he shaped it into a loaf and slid it into the clay oven, the heat wrapping around it like a blanket. When he pulled it out hours later, the crust was golden and crisp, the inside soft and airy, with a subtle tang that made Erika's eyes widen.
"It's delicious," she said, tearing off a piece. Garin nodded, chewing thoughtfully, while Isabella ate two helpings without speaking.
That same week, the heat grew unbearable. Villagers collapsed in the fields, their lips cracked, their energy drained. Leon remembered Kael's journal—notes on cooling draughts made from herbs that cut through heat—and ran to Eldrin's cottage.
Eldrin mixed him a bundle: bitterleaf daisy for cooling, mint for refreshment, wolfroot to soothe throats, and a pinch of salt to replace what was lost in sweat. "Boil it, let it cool," he said. "Drink it throughout the day— it won't make the heat go away, but it will keep you from falling ill."
Leon boiled a large pot at dawn, then carried it to the fields in a clay jug. The villagers drank eagerly, sighing as the cool, tangy liquid slid down their throats. "This is a blessing," the miller said, refilling his mug. By noon, the jug was empty, and Leon promised to make more the next day.
That night, as Leon sat by the fire, eating his sourdough bread and listening to the villagers praise the drink, he smiled. These were small things—better bread, cooler water—but in a world of scarcity, small things were treasures. They kept bellies full, spirits high, and harvests on track.