The years passed in a steady rhythm, each one blending into the next as Leo grew taller and stronger. By the time he reached ten, he was no longer a small boy, but a young man, hardened by the mountain and shaped by his father's quiet teachings. His hands had become as skilled as his father's—fingers calloused from the work of trapping, hunting, and now, tanning hides.
The cabin smelled of smoke and wet leather, the fire crackling softly as Leo sat beside his father, working diligently on a fresh deer hide. His father had taught him how to scrape away the flesh, how to soften the leather, and how to treat it with oil to preserve its strength. The process was long and tedious, but it was one Leo had come to appreciate. Every hide had its own unique feel, its own character, and when it was done, it would be as useful as any weapon or tool.
His father's presence was steady, a calm silence that wrapped around them both. They worked side by side, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Leo's father spoke little, but when he did, it was always to offer guidance—whether it was the best way to stretch the hide or a quiet lesson on the importance of patience.
"You must learn to feel the skin, Leo," his father would say, his deep voice carrying a quiet authority. "The leather tells you what it needs, what it wants. Just like the animals, it has its own rhythm. You have to listen."
Leo had learned that over the years. His hands were attuned to the hide, his fingers moving in practiced motions. The raw, rough surface gradually became softer, more pliable in his hands. He had made clothing for himself by now—simple tunics, pants, and boots—but there was still much to learn. His father had made sure of that, teaching him the art of stitching, weaving, and even creating simple patterns from the leather to make things that would last.
But in the quiet of the cabin, amidst the work and the firelight, Leo's mind often wandered to the compendium. It was always there, tucked away in his pack, its weight a constant reminder of the strange and ancient magic it contained. Over the years, Leo had continued to study it in secret, unable to resist the pull of the book, even though its contents remained elusive.
The compendium whispered to him when the fire was low, when the silence between him and his father stretched too long. It wasn't always clear—sometimes the whispers were nothing more than fleeting thoughts, a fluttering of words that made no sense, other times they were more like dreams, vivid and full of strange symbols. Leo couldn't read them, not yet, but he could feel them—feel the power that they held, like a pulse beneath his skin.
When he was young, the whispers had terrified him. But now, as he grew, the fear had dulled to curiosity. The compendium was part of him, a constant presence, urging him forward. Sometimes, the words sounded like a language he knew, and sometimes, they felt like they were calling to him, beckoning him to understand.
He was not sure what would happen when he unlocked it, when he finally understood the compendium. But he knew one thing for certain: it was meant for him. It had been left for him, given to him by that dying Urgal, for a reason. A reason he had yet to uncover.
As Leo worked on the leather, his hands moved almost instinctively. But his mind was elsewhere, lost in the quiet whispers that drifted through the edges of his thoughts. The fire crackled, casting long shadows across the cabin, and the words began again, drifting into his mind like a lullaby.
"The skin of the beast is the key. The magic flows through the thread, through the needle, through your hands. You are more than what you see."
Leo paused, his fingers stilling on the leather. The words were clearer now, more coherent than before. The compendium wasn't speaking to him in riddles anymore. No, it was teaching him—guiding him. He had heard something similar once, when he had been trying to understand the ancient language in the book. The idea that the world itself could be woven together like the threads in a garment was new, but it made sense.
"Father," Leo began, breaking the silence for the first time in a while. His voice was quiet, hesitant. His father looked up from his work, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing the seriousness in Leo's tone.
"Yes?" His father's voice was soft, but there was a quiet understanding behind it, as if he had known this moment was coming.
Leo hesitated. He wanted to tell his father about the book, about the magic, about everything that had changed within him. But the words felt heavy, too big for his young mind to hold. The compendium had taught him many things, but it hadn't taught him how to explain it all. How could he say what he didn't fully understand?
"Do you ever think," Leo began, unsure how to continue, "that there's more to the world than we know? More than we can see?"
His father gave him a thoughtful look, his brow furrowed slightly. "There's always more, Leo. The world is a vast place. Things happen that we don't understand, and sometimes, we never will. But that's why we learn to live with what we can, and make the best of it."
Leo nodded, but the feeling inside him didn't go away. The compendium still whispered, still beckoned him to understand its secrets. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it hidden, how much longer he could pretend he didn't hear the pull of magic that vibrated through his bones.
As they continued working, Leo couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing within him. The compendium had taught him more than just magic—it was teaching him about the world, about his place in it. And soon, Leo knew, he would have to make a choice.
Would he continue to live the quiet, simple life his father had carved out for them? Or would he embrace the magic calling to him, the magic that had been left for him to find?
The night passed in silence, broken only by the sounds of their work. And though Leo continued to tan the hide, his mind was far away, drifting through the strange, whispered secrets that would one day lead him down a new and unknown path.