Weeks passed, and Leon threw himself into mastering the herb-tasting art. Each morning, he set out jars of milk, potions antidotes, and small piles of herbs—some safe, some toxic—on Eldrin's courtyard table. He'd pinch a tiny fragment, place it on his tongue, and note the sensation: bitter and numbing (likely toxic), sweet and warm (safe, often nourishing), sharp and burning (proceed with caution).
His tongue grew so sensitive that he could distinguish between three types of mint, or tell if a wolfroot had been harvested in spring or autumn. It made his cooking unbearable for Garin and Erika at first—"Leon, this stew has no salt!" Garin would grumble—but gradually, they grew to appreciate the subtle flavors. "It's like tasting the forest," Isabella admitted one evening, eating a bowl of his mushroom soup.
Eldrin pushed him harder than ever. They ventured into the deeper parts of the Whispering Forest, where Eldrin pointed out rare herbs: ironwort with its purple blooms, mountain ginseng hidden beneath mossy stones. "Dig it with a wooden spoon," Eldrin instructed, his voice weak but firm. "Metal poisons the root. It's good for restoring strength—save it for when you need it most."
He taught Leon how to remove toxins from harmful herbs: boiling belladonna with chamomile to neutralize its potency, drying hemlock leaves in sunlight to reduce their deadliness. "The key is balance," Eldrin said, his hands trembling as he stirred a pot of herbal paste. "Every plant has a purpose—even the poisonous ones. Your job is to find it."
Leon noticed the little things first: Eldrin's cough that wouldn't go away, the way he stumbled when walking on uneven ground, the small cloth bag he kept hidden in his pocket, filled with herbs Leon didn't recognize. One afternoon, Leon watched as Eldrin reached for a clay jar on the shelf, his hand knocking it over. The jar shattered, dried herbs spilling everywhere.
"Master, let me help," Leon said, kneeling to clean up.
Eldrin waved him off, his face flushed. "I'm fine. Just clumsy." But his eyes were cloudy, and he didn't move to help.
That evening, Garin sat Leon down by the fire. "We're moving to the town next month," he said. "I've saved enough gold. The bakery will be bigger—we can sell your special breads, the ones with honey and eggs."
Leon's stomach dropped. "What about Eldrin?"
Garin sighed. "He's old, Leon. We'll visit often. But you need more than Acorn Village can give. The town has a library, a better blacksmith, even a healer who might teach you more."
Leon nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of Eldrin's trembling hands, his hidden herbs, the story of his lost name. "I don't want to leave him," he said quietly.
The next day, he told Eldrin about the move. The old man smiled, patting his shoulder. "It's time," he said. "Ten years old, and you've already outgrown this village. The town is just the start—someday, you'll go to the capital. You'll learn things I never could."
"But what about you?" Leon asked.
Eldrin's gaze softened. "I'll be here. The forest needs me, and I need it. But you… you're meant for more. Promise me you won't forget what I've taught you. The herbs, the caution, the way to see the world as it could be."
"I promise," Leon said, his throat tight.
Eldrin coughed, reaching for his cloth bag. "Good. Now go—Bart and Walker are waiting for you. And Leon?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Be careful with that crossbow. Strength without wisdom is a curse."
Leon nodded, walking out into the sunlight. He looked back at the cottage, at the old man sitting in the yard, and felt a sense of dread settle in his chest. He didn't want to leave—not when Eldrin seemed to be fading, like a flower without water.