❄️

When Rozell turns his head, a monstrous flame flares on the snowed debris, giving birth to black-clothed humans. Blood seeps out from the trails they leave on the ground. Their war cries and weapons shake the entire forest, almost throwing Rozell off his footing.

Rozell shakily puts four of his paws on the ground, with two of them shaped like human hands. Even when his heart thuds in his chest like it's about to explode, he forces himself to run away from the shrieking forest, the deadly crowd, and their hungry weapons.

It's like the snow is swallowing him alive. Whenever he tries to unstuck his feet, they always sink deeper into the ground, tangled with the debris and foliage.

And so he forces them to run away from the blood now soaking his fur and Opus' identical features on these hunters. With a blade still poking out of their lower legs, they limp through the snowy hills.

The trees lessen. As Rozell darts through some gnarled stumps, one of them sprouts into a harpy eagle, wearing its crown-like crest. With a low caw, it exclaims, "Beware, son of the woods. Darkness is coming for you like a snaking fog, soon to entangle you in its seductive vines."

The tightness in Rozell's chest grows. "What darkness?"

As the harpy eagle flies over him, Rozell looks back only to find clumps of dead grass peeking out of the ground.

The harpy eagle's flapping wings snap Rozell's attention back to it. "Of darkness so great, no sunlight can ward it away. Of a pain too heavy to carry on your own, worse than the potion can punish you. And of coldness so greedy not even a single breath can thaw it away."

"W-What? But why?"

A hollow voice echoes throughout the forest, "Because deep inside you know you have killed me." Opus lets out a sputtering cough, wrapping the air in ash.

The ash slithers into Rozell like a thief, squeezing his soul out.

Rozell snaps his eyes open, leaping off the mattress with a storming heart. He grits his teeth together to stop them from disturbing Mielle's sleep.

It's like the night breathes at Rozell, blowing both icicles and snow.

The darkness allows Rozell to weep silently. Opus' face resurfaces again in his mind, only to wilt away like the trees in winter. The image of Opus' severed leg still haunts Rozell, along with the fresh blood coating it.

Is he dead? I should've never taken that road; I was only trying to scare them away! I never want to hurt anybody.

The pain from the potion he drank earlier sinks in a few counts later. It starts with a sharp tingle on his back, followed by hundreds of others. Something crawls up his spine, licking his nape with a tongue as sharp as an ax. Rozell sneaks under his blanket, trying to comfort the aches shredding his joints apart. Muffling his cry, Rozell puts his hands over his mouth to ignore the itches worming through his teeth.

The animals in his body howl in distress.

What could be worse than this? It's already much worse than death.

Death could just let me die. I would rot underground with the critters and dirt, free of all pain and guilt.

In the middle of that soundless dawn, a snore flits from Rozell's side. Mielle murmurs some incomprehensible words, making Rozell long for her company.

But if I had died, what would become of Grandpa, Da, Ma, and Mielle?

❄️❄️

When the first crack of sunshine slips through the window, Rozell's eyes ache after remaining open for so long. His limbs are frozen stiff like the wooden poles supporting the cottage, and his fingers are so cold they might leave frostbites. The glow of the lanterns has reduced into a mere speck.

But still, Mielle dozes away like a grizzly bear.

Groaning to himself, Rozell climbs out of the blanket. His plan for the day remains bleak, but with Opus' face continuing to torment him, he can't let fear shackle him back any longer.

He must pay his honors to the dead, though they didn't know each other.

Rozell gently tugs Mielle's old wardrobe open. He reaches out for a thick black coat with dead flowers over its collar. He wraps the dust-smelling outfit around his thin body.

"Was it so bad that you couldn't stop pounding your feet on the floor?"Rozell slams the wardrobe shut once Mielle groggily shifts out of her blanket. Her ruffled, mismatched sweaters make Rozell blink away. "What are you talking about?"

"You." Even when her tone is weak, Rozell can feel her accusation. "Did someone chase you last night?"

The pain in his joints intensifies. "Yeah. Sorry if I woke you up."

She shakes her head, turning her cropped black hair into a nest. "Actually, Grandpa did it first. He had cried all night like a newborn."

Grandpa? All these years, he often wipes their picture frames at the cottage, tries to finish Grandma's knitting in his spare time, and stares at the wedding pendant around his neck, but he has never cried.

Maybe the news of the unusual death strikes his soft spot.

"What time do you start your class with Ma?" Judging by Mielle's deep frown, Ma's class must be as bleak as his plan. "You should get more sleep."

"But I can't. Because of that"—Mielle points at the brightening sky—"and now that you're leaving again."

Rozell's lips shake with bottled emotions when a crystallized layer appears on Mielle's eyes. "I promise I'll visit more often."

"I don't think we share the same definition of 'often'." Her chapped lips curve into a pout but fail halfway through. As she buries her face on Rozell's shoulder, the layer in her eyes melts through Rozell's coat. "Nobody around my age likes to hang out with me; they're always too busy with homework and chores. The only ones I can talk with are all strangers."

Though the words slip off Mielle's tongue like smooth silk, Rozell's doubts still cloud his forehead.

The actual reason must be Ma's strict curfew since most youngsters always leave their houses at that time. And they might not be able to deal with Mielle, who thinks more critically and straightforwardly than they do.

"I promise I'll visit again before this winter ends." He offers her a weak smile. "Until then, do take care of yourself."

When she wipes her snot, she lifts her face away from Rozell. "If only I could live with you and Grandpa. A life with lesser privileges sounds much better than living like a walking skeleton."

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The path Rozell takes to Mountkirk Village is bumpy and steep. The snow might reach his ankles if he shrugs his boots lose. And the icy veil almost drags him down several times.

But after the sun melts enough of them, Rozell can reach the village of red roofs and coughing chimneys before the sun gets any higher from the trees.

As Rozell descends one of the two slopes holding the village like cupped palms, his eyes rest upon dozens of carts filled with building materials, but he quickens his pace.

Just some deer meat and a peek into Opus' funeral, nothing further. No small talks with the villagers. I won't be able to lie anymore when the same people that hunt me down ask, "How have you been?"

On bright days like this, the villagers usually bumble around with either basket, pouches, sacks, and new topics on their tongues. The barn animals always meander around the empty fields, giving their herder a short rest after restocking their winter storage.

But on this bright day, most cottages are locked instead. The curtains are drawn, hiding their owners from the world. Neither the cows nor goats dare to carp around from their housings.

Once Rozell reaches the market, with lonely stalls and torn-down banners glaring at him, he heads to the meat seller. The muscled middle-aged woman raises a brow at him as she folds her hand fan. "You've never been the first to visit me."

Rozell's lips are stuck between a grimace and a smile. "Four bags of deer meat, please. And six pigeons." As the woman bustles around her stall, shoving Rozell's orders into a transparent bag, Rozell clears his throat. "I guess I shouldn't be proud to be your first customer today?"

The woman throws him a sneer as she bundles the big bag with enough force to tear them apart. "There was an alphabet on the peak last night."

Rozell gulps down his guilt as he looks around the deadened place. "Yeah. Avoridge is buzzing with it," he quotes Ma. "Are there many people at the funeral?"

"Numbers don't matter. Only some men truly pay for their condolences there, while some are too busy scheming inside their boar-sized heads."

With his heart now lurching in the speed of a frightened hare, Rozell slips his hand into his satchel.

"Seventy coins, please." When Rozell offers his payment, she grasps them like a hesitant prey accessing its hunter. "That's what I believe. Thank you for stopping by, anyway."

Rozell's words are glued to his throat. The last time he visited, none of the villagers shows hostility to anyone. Not even this woman, who must've stayed here longer than Rozell's life, judging by the molds and the peeling color of her wooden stand. "Look, my words will make sense if you ever go to that funeral," she calls out, snapping a few other sellers' heads her way. "And if you ever do, I ask you to pass a message to my son: I want him home before more merry-go-nuts drag him back into Borealm. Oh, in case you're wondering, Tesfaye is the tannest lad you'll find."

❄❄❄❄

It aches Rozell's heart to return to this spot under the mountain's peak, where eleven huts have lined down. Inside the tenth hut, lies an empty wicker bed that should've held Grandma's remains.

Rozell approaches the black-clad crowd with timid steps. Their similar outfit to those in his nightmare makes him curl his fists.

Once he spots Tesfaye, who once tried to save Opus from his fate, he steps close to him while letting his eyes wander around the other visitors. They occasionally glance at the snowy ground as if expecting the Day-Lynx to bulge out anytime soon.

Most women are dabbing their upper faces with handkerchiefs, but only one truly dabs her eyes, while rocking a sleeping baby in her arm.

Most men are stiff as stones, but only one face changes whenever Mountkirk's Chief utters something blunt. Oxen has scrapped every bit of glee he tried to muster last night. He seals his lips tightly as if locking his grief within. Cradling his arm is Ren; their claw-shaped pendants tangled with each other. A couple made of frisky grass and solid ice?

"May Opus Renance's soul live among us, blessing our village and spreads the good harvesting from it. May the gods lead him to the merciful path promised to many. And may his human deeds be forgiven." The Chief brushes away a stray gray lock from his wrinkled eyelids. Though the most innocent breeze seems able to knock him out to the ground, even with Mr. Clam and another man clutching his robed arms, his voice remains as strong as a wintry gust.

But still, nothing imprints worse damage inside Rozell's head than Opus Renance.

He might bless this village, but he'll sure to damn my soul. Should I beg him for forgiveness?

Rozell can no longer watch as six men carry a wooden slab with a blanketed figure on it into the eleventh hut.

So he taps Tesfaye's shoulders, murmurs the words of the meat seller, and skulks away in the speed of a breeze.

I'm sorry for playing a role in your death, Opus. If only I can mend it in some way.

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Total Word Count: 16,425