Two years slipped by in a blur of bread, books, and herb lessons. Leon was twelve now, taller and leaner, his hands calloused from kneading dough, grinding herbs, and building tools. The cake from the bakery's grand opening had become a staple at town celebrations, though whipping egg whites had grown tedious—until Leon built a hand-cranked mixer.
It was a simple device: wooden gears, a metal basin, and a crank that turned wire whisks inside. Garin had helped with the carpentry, and the blacksmith had forged the metal parts. "You're going to put bakers everywhere out of work," Erika joked as Leon tested it, watching the egg whites fluff into stiff peaks.
With the mixer doing the hard work, Leon had more time to spare. He began helping at Marca's apothecary, earning a small wage that he spent on paper and ink. He bound his own notebooks, filling them with notes from Dahlia's borrowed books and his own re-learned lessons—math, physics, even bits of chemistry from his former life. He wrote formulas in a mix of symbols and his native language, safe from prying eyes, and practiced on a sand tray to save paper.
He also improved his writing tools. Fed up with flimsy quill pens, he carved a dip pen from a wooden stick—sharpened at the tip, with grooves to hold ink. Later, he had the blacksmith make a bronze nib, more durable and smooth. "This is better than a quill," Dahlia said when she saw it, borrowing it to practice her own writing.
One afternoon, Leon was making hand-cut noodles for Dahlia—egg noodles tossed with ground meat and herbs—when she arrived at the bakery, her eyes wide with excitement. "Leon! Isabella! I have news."
She pulled them close, lowering her voice. "Father's hired a mage. A real mage—from the capital! He's going to be the manor's advisor, and he'll teach Flower and me magic."
Leon's heart skipped a beat. Magic. The thing Eldrin had searched for, the secret of the ruin, the dream he'd almost abandoned. "A mage?" he whispered. "When is he arriving?"
"In a few days," Dahlia said. "He's coming with my brother Rowan. Father's hosting a feast tonight to welcome him. And—" she grinned "—I told him about your cake. He loved it!"
Isabella frowned. "Mages are dangerous, aren't they? The village stories say they can control fire and wind."
"Stories are just stories," Leon said, though his mind raced. He thought of Eldrin's journal, of the white light that had erased his name. "Can I meet him? I've never seen a mage before."
"Of course!" Dahlia said. "Come tomorrow morning—bring breakfast. I'll sneak you in through the back gate. Just don't annoy him—Father says mages have tempers."
That night, Leon couldn't sleep. He pulled Eldrin's journal from under his bed, flipping through the pages of sketches and notes about the ruin. A mage might know something—about magic, about ruins, about the light that had taken Eldrin's friends. For the first time in years, his old dream felt within reach.
The next morning, Leon woke before dawn. He made steamed meat buns—cabbage and pork, and pure pork—along with fried eggs, smoked ham, and a small cake for Dahlia. He packed everything in a wicker basket, then hesitated, grabbing a small wicker ball with a fuse from under his bed. He'd made it months ago, a toy with gunpowder he'd crafted from sulfur and saltpeter—something to impress, or distract, the mage.
As he walked to the manor, his heart thudding, he whispered a silent promise to Eldrin. I'm one step closer. One step closer to the truth.