The rippling surface of Lake Azuron reflected afternoon sunlight like scattered jewels, deceptively serene despite the brothers' mounting frustration. Finn Mercer slouched in a small fishing boat, his lanky frame folded awkwardly as he tugged half-heartedly at his beast caster line. Beside him, his younger brother Arlo sat rigid, eyes narrowed in concentration as he adjusted the tension on his own line.
"Six hours," Finn groaned, tipping his head back. "Six hours and not a single decent catch."
Arlo didn't look up from his beast caster. "Patience. Elder Moran says the deep-dwellers only surface when the water temperature drops."
"Elder Moran also said this lake was teeming with category twos." Finn mimicked an elderly voice: "'Best bronze-tier hunting grounds in the East Cardinal, guaranteed yield or your credits back.'" He snorted. "Guarantee my ass."
"We've still got time," Arlo insisted, though his voice lacked conviction.
