Reaching the base of the rocky slope, Marek greeted the chill, misty air at the river’s edge. Blue-black water rushed past. The Silverdown River stretched across a great span of Northern Ardea, placid and lazy. This close to the mountains, though, it ran deep and swift.

Mags stopped at the water’s edge and sighed. Despite the history her family had with the river, she loved the Silverdown even more than Marek.

She laughed, sounding like the little girl Marek had grown up with. They shared a look of childish excitement. Then, leaping from boulder to boulder, the two worked their way up the riverbank. Marek’s face was soon covered in dew, the mist from the falls ahead filling the air so completely it shone like liquid amber. The river curved back and forth, then finally opened up to a deep pool.

Though rarely frequented, it wasn’t the “secret spot” Marek and Mags claimed it was. If rains fell suddenly, the riverbed would flood. But there are a few brave souls, Marek thought as he spotted an old friend fifty yards ahead, pulling in a drop line, furry hands working at a rapid pace.

“Oi! Bring in any big ones?” Mags belted out.

Yishra bared his fangs and shook his head. “The loud one asks about big fish. Always wanting big but not many? Foolish and far too loud.”

Mags was, of course, pleased by the banter. Her entire family thrived on conflict. “Loud and proud! Well, you catch all the little ones, then, and we’ll have at the big bastard. I know he’s still in here, and I will get him one day.”

Yishra dragged the end of his cordage in, and three trout flopped about the rocky shore. The Druskin hissed out his strange laugh. In moments, he’d thwacked each fish on the head and strung them on the belt at his waist, adding to his already-generous catch.

“What’s that, nine you got?” Marek asked.

“Eleven,” Yishra corrected. He tilted his head from side to side, padded feet pumping in excitement. “My litter mate will be pleased. Srashai frowns on you. Come to fish too late and after Yishra takes the best.” The Druskin tisked in mock disapproval, coiling his cordage with deft hands and stowing away the large cork float and hooks.

Mags snorted, hand buried in the pouch on her hip. As she plucked out a worm, she said, “Don’t think so, Yishra. The Strongtowers remember the Old Gods, and they happen to like me.”

Yishra tilted his head side to side again, a gesture that seemed to have many meanings to a Druskin. He set aside his tackle and plodded to the water’s edge. Producing a small knife, he used a Skill. The blade shimmered blue, and his hands blurred. In five seconds, he’d filleted the first fish.

Mags continued to prepare her rod, but her eyes remained glued on the Journeyman Fisher. It was a common enough Class, but few reached Journeyman. Yishra hadn’t told either of them, but he was at least Level 21. They’d only learned of his status as Journeyman from the town’s fishmonger.

After a minute of careful work, Yishra had finished. Humming to himself, he stowed the fillets, spines, and even guts. To a Druskin, no part of a fish was wasted. He’d likely sell the fillets in town and bring the rest home for supper.

“See you next time,” Marek said, watching Yishra go. Cat ears glistening with dew, the creature nodded back and plodded down the bank. Marek wondered what it would be like to see a Druskin village in person. The beast kin took on various forms, either wolflike, catlike, or some combination of the two.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Whatcha think, Elbows?” Mags asked, pulling him back to the present. “We gonna catch him this time?"

Marek laughed as he wove a fat worm onto his hook. “You always ask that. I don’t know, Magpie. If we do, will the string hold up? That’s what I want to know.”

She scoffed, swung her hook in a tight circle, and flung it far out in the pool. Loops of string uncoiled as she released them. The hook, worm, and small leaden weight vanished in the pool, though the sound was swallowed by the crashing water. “String’s as tough as we can afford. If the time’s right, we’ll hook him, and we’ll land him.”

Her confidence astounded him. Ever since he’d met the girl in school, he’d admired that about her. Mags could talk a bull out of charging, if it suited her.

With little light remaining, they got to it. They fished intently, letting the river speak for them. Marek caught the first. It was a small brook trout, eight or nine inches but fat from the swarms of mayflies that had come in early spring. He stored the fish away for supper and cast again.

“Ha!” Mags cried suddenly. Her pole bounced manically, the string cutting a swath through the water. Marek knew at once she’d hooked a big one. “Might’ve got him! Oh, Marek, he’s strong as a Rift spawn! Get ready!”

Marek wedged his rod between two stones and ran to the water’s edge. He stared into the dark water and, after half a minute, saw the bright flash of the fish’s scales as it turned. He gasped, the curving silver reflection far larger than any he’d seen before. A loud crack announced the demise of Mags’ line. The sinew string drifted to the water’s surface, then sunk along with their hopes.

He smiled sympathetically at Mags.

Her shoulders slumped forward. Brows raised in shock, she wrestled with disappointment for a beat. And then, with the grace and humility of a Strongtower, she laughed. Slapping her thigh, she threw back her head and groaned. “Blast it, if he wasn’t big! Did you see the flash, Marek? I think that was him!”

“It was big,” he admitted. “Not sure how big, but I’d say at least two feet long. Still, you think it was our fish?”

Mags nodded. “Absolutely. Same bump, bump, BUMP! Then he ran with it. I thought maybe I could tire him out, but he did that same trick again. Came in at an angle and turned hard, going full out. Oh, Prudence knows, but we have to buy some enchanted string!”

Marek agreed, leaning into their shared tradition. The cost of such a purchase would be outrageous—at least a gold coin—and just to catch a fish they could buy for a few silver? They could always daydream, though. For dreams were free.

After they’d pulled in several more fish, enough to add to the Strongtower family dinner, they gave up. Mags wound up her line and sighed. “Isaac the Asshole. Can’t believe he said that about Nyan. Even for him, it was low.”

Marek shook the handle of his fishing pole and ogled his friend. “Magpie! He was stringing you along like a stupid fish! You can’t take his bait. Like it or not, Isaac the Asshole isn’t someone you should tangle with.”

“I know. You’re right. Still, will he ever stop using that nickname? I’m not that small!”

“I’m afraid you are—and he’ll never stop if you keep getting pissed off when he says it,” Marek said honestly.

She groaned and shouldered the pole. “I wish it wasn’t such a good one. I mean, how do I make fun of Fray? None of the puns are scathing enough.”

“I’m a-frayed I don’t know what you mean, Mags. Seems like plenty of options to me.”

“Really?” Mags asked, swollen face scrunched. “The prodigy of Misthearth’s only Sigilist and you use that one?”

Marek shrugged. “Only puns I like are the dumb ones. Only people that say clever ones are people that want to be considered clever. That irks me something fierce. Trust me, it’s all about the low-hanging fruit.”

She chuckled as they headed downstream but didn’t say anything more.

Marek wanted to tell her about his uncle, about what Tilda had told him that afternoon. The moment was too good to spoil, though. Somehow, he knew their evenings spent alone at the secret spot were limited. They might not have another quite like it. Rather than open up and share the burden on his heart, Marek chose to walk beside his best friend in the falling dusk. A subdued smile on her bruised face told him she might feel the same.

So the unlikely pair strode across town in comfortable silence. They didn’t speak a word as they passed into Northshore, heading to a fish fry at the Strongtowers’ chaotic home.