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Borealm Woods must be cursed today.

The snowflakes attack Rozell's face like an army of blades as he hurls against them. Even when Rozell ducks on the ground and cowers behind the tight line of trees, he must always step on the wrong spot. The snow might be too cold. Or there are too many leaves there. And sometimes the bark of the trees he hides behind is too chipped, not blending well with the color of his fur.

He might be the one being cursed today. The hunters had never found him right in the cottage before; what will they tell Grandpa later?

"Shoot it! Don't let it get away!" Mr. Clam bellows louder than the breeze.

A sharp arrow almost slices Rozell's leg as he dodges to his left. He climbs to one of the white birch trees, cringing at the rough bark's scratches. Another arrow nearly misses his tail, forcing him to climb faster. His paws almost slip down the snowed bark, but he reaches out to the nearest branch and crawls onto it quickly, treading lightly so it won't snap under his weight.

The birds skitter off to the air as the Day-Lynx's distressed howl also includes the chirps of their dead friends. A few squirrels on the twigs rush back into their holes as the malformed beast imitates their buried relatives.

The Day-Lynx doesn't stop growling, even when his throat already craves cold water and his ears flinch at the echoes that haunt him.

They should've left me alone already; I don't want to kill anyone.

He curls his claws at one of the branches as he gathers his breath.

The hunters are still below, loading their long-barreled weapons. One of them grabs a handful of arrows from his sack, clumsily fitting it into his crossbow. His eyes scramble around for the sight of the Day-Lynx. When they spot him, the courage within melts into fear. His teeth chatter like clashing ice cubes before he grits them together.

Rozell breaks into another dash, jumping from one tree to its neighbor. The arrows sneak through the leaves like flying snakes. The dead leaves stick to his skin like a second fur, and his claws beg to scratch the itchy parts.

"There! Don't lose it!" The smoking hunter fires his weapon to the upper parts of the trees, turning the air hotter. Hundreds of critters flee the immediate war zone.

The continuous sound rings like death in Rozell's ears. He almost loses grip on another branch as his legs shake like those intimidated animals. A burning ache spreads through him, stinging his sweaty paws and nose.

It's no longer winter for the Day-Lynx, but a deadly summer. Will his blood feel as hot as his body if he ever gets shot?

The foul-mouthed hunter fires close to him, hitting the branch he's on. "Cursed son of a cow. I missed it again!"

When Rozell jumps into a few more trees, he spots a cliff at the edge of the forest. This must be the one nearest to his cottage. The cliff has a few vines tangled to the roots from the upper ground, serving as a vertical path for a huge, hidden hole on the wall. It's where he usually slips into whenever he doesn't feel like staying in. Sometimes even in a situation like this.

But if the Day-Lynx often dives into the cliff head-first and always comes back alive, where can it be hiding all this time?

No. They might find my secret place.

The hunters haven't shown signs of giving up, shooting the branch or leaves like mad tribesmen. An arrow will always strike the place he's about to land on, and he always growls whenever he has to retreat or brake to search for another branch.

The pain on his skin grows bigger the quicker he moves. Some arrows or thorns might've grazed him. The heat searing from the bullets might have affected him too. His sweat only slows him down, blurring his eyes as they pool on his face.

He needs to stop. The trees are coming to an end.

Alas, why did I choose this route in the first place? I should've brought them to their traps instead!

As quick as the idea dawns on him, Rozell clings to the branch he's on. Turning himself around, he stretches his legs before leaping to the ground and smashes against the snow.

That's it. I should've shown them what had happened sixteen years ago.

With the speed of a little bird—one which died and poked out of his back—Rozell knocks against the hunter with the crossbow. Both Mr. Clam and his partner aim their weapons at him, a pelt of burning bullets showering out of the muzzles.

He escapes after he buries the hunter's face deep enough in the snowy ground. The other two hunters are swift on his tail, reloading their hissing weapons.

Once his wooden cottage rises in sight, he takes a sharp turn to the right. Another row of trees, richly brown and sturdy, guides him along the way. The sunlight disappears from the gaps of the trees, turning the air into a gloomy gray.

Rozell takes another sharp turn, past a clump of prickly bushes. More white birches greet him on the side, their thinning branches swaying along with the drowsing breeze. The hunters, grunting and panting from the amount of snow they have to 'shovel' through with their boots, are no longer quick enough to catch up with him.

Maybe the hunters are the ones being cursed today. None of them will be ready for the surprise he's about to throw.

Once he reaches the ground where the snow hills peep out like ocean waves, Rozell's gaze flits around. A mere pain stabs his chest at the sight of the tree roots he had buried the bird into, along with the vivid picture of his blood spilling out of his legs.

No, now isn't the time for flashbacks! Save it for later!

Rushing away from his current spot, he jumps away from where the blade had once struck the bird. A few berries still lie over the final resting place. He takes another leap, avoiding the spot where he was later struck as well.

Death won't be so kind to him if he ever triggers the trap for the second time. Hell, Death might've been cursing him already for returning here.

His throat is as parched as sand, and his heart tries to bulge out of his chest, now drumming with a rhythm too unstable. A glance at the barren trees assures him to climb up to the topmost branch again. It's as slippery as his front porch since the snowflakes are merging with the fallen leaves.

A few scratches glare with a stark redness against his skin, tempting Rozell to weep in pain. But he calms his heavy breath down once three shadows creep into his view from the direction he came from.

Their hands must be either wet with sweat or the melting snow since their grip on their weapons isn't as firm as before. Only Mr. Clam's eyes snap alertly, like a steady owl in the night time. They must've abandoned their sacks and Grandpa's transparent bags somewhere since they bring nothing else but two long-barreled weapons and one creaking crossbow.

If this trick can't do it, where should he hide after this? Will he have to face them like the savage beast he is? No lynxes should be afraid of humans; they're the top killers in Borealm Woods.

But I'm no killer. I wasn't even a lynx to begin with.

Rozell can't hold back the anxiety pumping in his bloodstream.

"Take a good look at the area. Opus"—Mr. Clam nods harshly at the ash-smelling hunter, while he points in his opposite direction—"check that part. As for you, Tesfaye—"

"We should go back, Mr. Clam." The hunter lowers his crossbow, his gaze trained on the dirty snow like a guilty hare. As if sensing the growing steam from Mr. Clam's head, he takes a step back. "I think we've done enough for today—"

"How is it yours to decide?" The chill in Mr. Clam's tone pains Rozell, even though the words aren't meant for him. They're enough to make Tesfaye's teeth chatter like ice cubes. "We're that close to getting it. Close enough to our village's complete peace!"

"But we've been peaceful enough." Tesfaye's voice shakes, like seedlings blown by the wind. The knuckles clutching his crossbow are as white as snow, betraying the heated blush creeping onto his cheeks. "Day-Lynx has never attacked anyone in the village—"

"Yet."

"It has existed for decades, and nothing bad has happened—"

Standing straighter now, Mr. Clam grips his long-barreled weapon. "Should your parents be the first it tries to bite? Would you risk them?" With each of his rising tones, the air changes subtly.

It's like even the weather fears the man's wrath.

"Your parents are too good to be wasted for a gamble like this. Would you like to take their place instead?"

"That wasn't what I meant," Tesfaye stutters, a sob cracking his last word. "Maybe we should just call it a day. We're running out of bullets and arrows." Any time now, Rozell expects the shivering man to get on his knees.

But he hasn't even started to when a man's cry crushes the air.

A pool of blood splits open once Opus drops his weapon and falls to the ground, whimpering at his injured ankles. The pants covering his skin dangle like loose threads, along with chunks of his flesh. The two rushing to his side can only gawk and freeze, shivers rocking their postures.

This is how Rozell must've looked like to Death, sixteen years ago.

In three counts, Mr. Clam bellows, "Don't just stand there! Take him back to the village." He shoots both the ground and the trees a piercing glare, and for a brief moment, he almost spots Rozell. But the dead leaves cover him better than a blanket.

The strong smell of iron tickles Rozell's nose. As Mr. Clam tries to heave Opus into his arms, Tesfaye dashes back to the distance—maybe collecting their belongings. Rozell lies low in his hideout, mixed feelings twisting his guts.

He shouldn't have felt bad for luring them here. He shouldn't have felt bad for risking Opus' ankles either.

After all, they must've been the ones killing him in the past! Who else would have such dangerous traps in this area and spread them as well?

It should've been their fault, right? They shouldn't have put so many traps all over the place. They shouldn't have bothered to chase me like that either.

But instead of welcoming relief into his insides, a storm of guilt shakes his core with its harsh thunder.

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The cottage's door is closed once he returns to it. And so are the windows.

There are no sounds from within; Grandpa hasn't come home yet.

Pushing the door open into a narrow slit, he slips through with heaviness in his steps. His chest burns with fatigue, and so do his muscles. The floor seems tempting to sleep on, but the nagging thought on the back of his head forces him to stay awake.

Everything is too tidy. Things weren't arranged this way when the hunters had found him peeking into Grandpa's wooden chest.

He snaps his weak head to the side. The chest is also closed now.

Everything is surely too tidy. Not even Grandpa nor he could've done all of these. They always miss something, like forgetting to close the window or leaving the door slightly opened or unlocked.

It only takes five counts for him to answer some of his questions: from when, who, to how. All he needs to figure out is what that person did and why.

But... how dare you, Ren? Why would you sneak into this cottage like a thief?

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Total Word Count: 7,925