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"I am the Chief of this village, and I never teach any of you to kill without a reasonable purpose. What has this beast done to deserve death?"

The Day-Lynx stirs awake at the bouncing voices that slam onto his ears. When he opens his eyes, the darkness stifles him. The sunlight's warmth peeps through the gaps between the wooden walls, shedding some attention onto his chain-bound ankles. The silver items rattle once Rozell tries to lift his body, and he falls back to the slab with a thump.

It's a shame that what should've been a wicker bed now turns into a silver slab. The dead villagers' ghosts will surely be mad at this special treatment for Rozell.

The previous events soon rush back into his head, making his heart pump faster. As he tugs on the chain to free himself, a sharp pain stabs his badly cut ankles. His roar shakes the little funeral hut. The door opens with the slightest creak, revealing a dark-eyed man with the alertness of a serpent.

Didn't Oxen say they weren't supposed to take me back to Mountkirk?

"Opus had fallen because of this monster," Oxen's unsteady voice shuts up the crowd like thunder in daylight. "Isn't it enough purpose to kill it already? There's no need for more traditional approaches."

"At least this traditional approach still allows us to think with a leveled head, Mr. Oxen," the hoarse man who defended Rozell counters. "Grief is not an easy opponent. But it should never control our heads."

Rozell breathes in deeply when his voice becomes familiar in his head; isn't this Mountkirk's Chief? He was the one praying for Opus when they were about to settle him into his resting place.

Why is he here now?

"Naivety shouldn't also control yours, Old Chief."

The crowd soon bellows in rage. Some punches explode outside of the small hut, followed by loud thuds and the sound of ripped clothes.

Rozell shrinks farther in his uncomfortable position. He needs to get out of here as their disagreement continues.

Rozell tries to slice through the chain by slashing it against the silver slab, but the screech causes him to cringe. Gathering his remaining strength, Rozell climbs on his hind legs and tugs on both his front ankles. The chain still carves red marks on his fur. His grunt slowly turns into a furious roar. Heat grows inside him like a fireball ready to be set free.

I can get out of here. This chain must break at one point.

But before the silver can even crack, the hut's door slams open. The serpent-eyed man treads inside, each step looking as if he has to drag himself forward. Rozell snarls at him and bares his teeth, but the elder doesn't even flinch. Instead, he slowly approaches Rozell and stretches out his hand, like he's trying to touch a fragile vase.

Rozell's more than ready to chop through the Chief's fingers, but the pity in his eyes melt him. Soon, he stiffens like a statue as the older man brushes the top of his head. The burst of heat inside Rozell slowly ebbs away with the breeze.

"The gods had sent you down here. But sacred or not, no beast is going to die without a purpose." His alluring voice drowns any else outside of the hut.

It's the first time someone talks to me this way. He treats me like I have a conscience, not a mere shell without a thought.

Rozell feels at ease around the Chief. For the first time, Rozell feels accepted for what he is.

"The entire village knows you didn't kill anybody." The Chief retracts his hand away from Rozell after a while. "But some will still try to get to you as a settlement for their issues. That is why I will ask you to run."

A cold shiver slithers through Rozell's fur, stinging his gaping wounds as well.

The Chief exhales heavily, scratching his graying hair as he rearranges the cloth hat that keeps them intact. "As long as you lurk around here, they can never be in peace. Not all of the villagers can see you in bright light, even when they know how you're different from the other creatures. Some of them might even feel threatened, knowing that you can understand humans."

Rozell gulps down as he shifts on both his front legs. Cold tears create a thin layer in front of his vision, followed by the familiar emotional heat that swirls in his chest. He recalls those who bear grudges against him, including Mr. Clam and Oxen. Their various faces when they circled his net back then still creep him out.

It's like I'm a creature out of their worst nightmares.

"I apologize that you have to go through all these." The Chief's sullen voice baits Rozell's attention back to him. He casts another smile at Rozell before returning to the door. "But not all humans can see the greater good ahead of them. For darkness and turmoil are much easier to notice." Rozell's yet to blink him a farewell, but the door already shuts.

Rozell's strength ebbs away with the departure of the Chief. And it gets harder to breathe in this stuffy hut. His determination of escaping weakens, for once he does, the villagers—including the Chief—don't wish to see him again.

"My decision remains. I won't let anyone harm this beast. From the moment I saw it under your weapons, I could not sense any danger in its veins." The Chief silences the crowd. "I have to ask every responsible party to release the beast back where it belongs."

"After every sweat we've gotten through?" a challenging male's voice rises. "You want us to release the beast. How dare you?"

"The Chief means everything he says, and it's not your place to protest his decision," another voice growls, carrying an underlying threat. "I ask you to honor our Chief's words."

As the crowd bellow louder—either the villagers or the hunters—Rozell trembles in his prison.

These people are still hunting for his blood. Will they do the same if he's a human instead?

Rozell cracks a sob of both pain and sadness. The words of the angry mob, the Chief, and his beliefs clash into a tangled yarn in his head, driving him to a deeper verge of desperation.

The Chief is right. No matter what I do, some people won't ever see me in the bright light.

❄❄

"No one is allowed to enter, Mr. Clam. Chief's orders."

Rozell's ears perk up at the bright, defiant voice. It's the same one that always accompanies Mr. Clam during all his hunts—Tesfaye.

An irritated sigh bursts from the cottage's door, followed by a rapid thump and some struggling grunts. "How could the Chief talk you into this?" Rozell imagines Mr. Clam slowly shaking his head, casting a demeaning glare at his younger companion.

"He's still related with my blood, Mr. Clam," Tesfaye replies shakily as if his emotions are ready to burst through his temples. "And please leave the Chief out of this."

Mr. Clam coughs wildly before spitting on the dirt and bangs against the wooden door.

When it opens a sliver wider, a thin golden-orange ray of light slips in, jerking Rozell's heartbeat. But since he already runs out of energy, he can barely move a paw.

Dusk is almost here. And soon, people won't find the beast in this prison, but a young man with bloody scars and bent limbs instead. And by then, I won't have any words to defend myself.

"All Mountkirk villagers are related by blood, you wasp. And I will drag the Chief into this," Mr. Clam continues. "After all our efforts to trap the beast succeeded, that old man had to demand it to be put in this prison. It's a miracle none of these foul-tempered hunters has managed to break through the hut."

"It's more of a miracle if it's still alive after everything it had been through."

"Don't forget your role. You were also there," Mr. Clam growls lowly. "Alright, I'll be back with a chainsaw to take this place down then."

"Please get some common sense while you still can—before you do something you'll regret."

A jeering cackle explodes outside of the hut. "Didn't your butcher of a mother tell you not to get too loud with your mouth? And to be true with you, my only regret is not slaughtering the Day-Lynx any earlier." Barely a few breaths have passed when rapid footsteps tread away from the hut.

Before Rozell can gather his small ounce of strength and try to free himself again, the door slams open, and Tesfaye enters with a bewildered expression. A small triangular object—possibly a tooth from the teethed whip—glints in his trembling hand.

Gritting his teeth, he bends low next to Rozell's ankle while muttering, "I hope you know what this means, buddy."

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Total Word Count: 28,425