Calen walked for many days, the rhythm of his journey falling in step with the breath of the land. The hills and meadows of the Westfold rolled past him, shifting from green pastures to marshy flats where reeds swayed in the whispering wind. The path he followed was not well-trodden, but it was steady, winding toward the Onodló, the Entwash, as it was called in the tongues of Gondor.

The river, broad and shining, came into view as he crested a low ridge. Its waters gleamed like silver, stretching far and wide, their surface broken by the lazy drift of lily pads and reeds. Birds waded in the shallows, their calls ringing through the air, and in the distance, the tall willows bent over the water as though whispering secrets to the current.

A thrill of excitement filled Calen’s chest. This was a place he had only ever heard of in passing, a river far greater than the Snowbourn. The fishermen of Alderdale spoke of it rarely, for few had traveled so far east. The Onodló belonged to itself, wide, deep, and slow-moving, as if it carried the wisdom of many years.

His steps quickened as he made his way to the water’s edge. The banks were soft, rich with silt, and the reeds stood tall, swaying with the gentle pull of the river’s flow. Calen slung his pack down and withdrew his fishing rod. The wood was well-worn from years of use, and the line, though simple, was strong, tied in the manner his father had taught him long ago.

Calen selected a piece of bait from his small tin, hooking it with practiced ease before drawing back his rod. He let his arm move with the grace of muscle memory, casting the line far into the river where the water ran deep. The splash was soft, swallowed by the steady murmur of the current.

And then, he waited.

Fishing was an art of patience, one he had honed in the quiet mornings of Alderdale. He let the world settle around him, feeling the river’s pulse through the taut line in his fingers. The reeds rustled in the breeze, and a dragonfly hovered near the surface, its iridescent wings flickering in the golden light.

Then, a sharp tug.

Calen’s grip tightened, his body instinctively tensing. He pulled back, steady but firm, feeling the resistance at the other end. The fish fought, its body twisting beneath the water, but Calen knew better than to rush. He let it tire itself against the pull, his hands deftly guiding the rod, until at last, he reeled it in.

A brown trout, sleek and speckled, gleamed as he lifted it from the water. It flailed, shimmering in the afternoon sun. A grin split his face as he admired his catch.

“A fine one,” he murmured, setting it carefully into his satchel.

Encouraged, he cast again, watching the ripples spread across the Onodló’s surface. Time passed as the sun arced across the sky, its reflection dancing on the water. He had just begun to relax when a shadow moved beneath the surface.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. But then, the water swelled, something vast shifting beneath the reeds. A long, sinuous form glided just below the surface, a great fish, larger than any he had ever seen.

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Calen’s breath caught, his fingers frozen on the line. The fish was ancient-looking, its armored body a pale silver-blue, its whiskered mouth gliding along the riverbed as though in search of some hidden meal. It moved with slow majesty, a creature out of time.

His heart pounded. Stories of river-beasts surfaced in his mind, fanciful tales of fish large enough to overturn boats, of creatures mistaken for river-dwelling dragons. Yet, as he stood watching, the sturgeon did not rise to strike. It merely passed, a traveler in its own world, indifferent to the figure standing frozen on the bank.

Calen let out a long breath.

He had read about sturgeon in his father’s old books but had never seen one in life. Now, as the great fish disappeared into the deeper waters, he felt a quiet awe settle in his chest. They were harmless, slow-moving giants of the rivers, but to see one, truly see one, was humbling.

“I never thought I’d lay eyes on one,” he murmured, the thrill of it still tingling in his fingers.

Determined to make the day one to remember, Calen cast his line once more. The hours slipped past, the Onodló’s slow song wrapping around him as the river embraced the sinking sun.

Another tug. Strong. Wild.

This one fought fiercely, jerking the line, forcing him to plant his feet and reel with care. His muscles burned with the effort, but excitement surged through him. He pulled back, step by step, until at last, he glimpsed the catch breaking through the surface.

Sleek and long, its emerald scales glistened, its sharp teeth bared in defiance. A rare catch indeed, pike were not easily lured. Calen’s laughter rang out, raw and full of triumph.

“Now this,” he grinned, “is a catch worth telling.”

Exhausted but satisfied, he set the pike alongside his other catches. His fingers trembled from the strain, but his heart was full.

The day had slipped into dusk by the time he gathered his belongings. He moved away from the riverbank, finding a patch of firm ground beneath the trees where he could set up camp. The evening breeze rustled the leaves above, and the scent of damp earth filled the air.

He wandered in search of kindling. The great river murmured beside him, its voice deep and endless, while the wind carried the scent of distant rain. Here, where trees were but lone sentinels upon the horizon, he gathered what the land would give, dry reeds, fallen branches brought by the river’s flood, and withered brambles clinging stubbornly to the earth.

At last, his arms heavy with fuel, he returned to his camp upon the river’s bank. There, with practiced hands, he struck his firestone, sending sparks dancing into the gathered tinder. A breath, soft and knowing, coaxed the embers to life until flame took hold, flickering and growing, casting golden light upon the encroaching dusk.

He set the fish upon sharpened sticks, turning them with the patience of one well-versed in the ways of the wild. The scent of roasting trout rose into the evening air, mingling with the whispers of the river. When at last they were cooked to a crisp, golden hue, he ate in quiet satisfaction, the warmth of the meal chasing away the weariness of the day. The pike, still fresh and waiting, he set aside for the morn, when the fire’s embers would stir once more, and the river would greet him anew.

Unrolling his coat, he laid it out beneath him and used his pack as a pillow once more. His body ached pleasantly from the day’s efforts, but his mind buzzed with the thrill of it all.

The great sturgeon returned to his thoughts. In Alderdale, fishing had been a quiet, uneventful duty, a means of living. But here, by the Onodló, it had been something else entirely. The river had given him excitement, challenge, and discovery. Perhaps being a fisherman was not such a dull life after all.

Perhaps, out here in the wide world, fishing was more than a chore, it was a way of touching something greater, something ancient and wild.

With the hush of the river in the distance and the cool night settling in, Calen let himself drift into sleep, dreaming not of Alderdale, but of the waters yet to come.