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The sun has risen and fallen over Borealm Woods four times, but its warmth is still an illusion in Rozell's cottage.

Ever since Grandpa stepped out of the door after their quarrel, they've barely interacted. And with each day, the pain in Rozell's chest constricts him like a giant snake.

For once in his life, he scorns Death for granting him a break from his Day-Lynx duty that day. If the nightmares hadn't paralyzed him and he still could remain as the Day-Lynx for the rest of the daylight, maybe nothing would've happened between them.

He has tried to regain Grandpa's trust by staying in his human form these last four days. Though Grandpa mostly stays out of the cottage and he doesn't seem to notice Rozell's efforts, Rozell doesn't even complain.

It isn't Grandpa's fault if he ever gets sick of our relationship, after all.

But on the dusk of the fourth day, a hurried knock finally shatters the cottage's silence.

When Rozell rushes to the door and expects either Grandpa or Mielle with a company, Oxen's pleading face stares back instead. He absentmindedly fiddles with a modified kunai—the same short-handled, metal-tipped blade that had once killed Rozell.

A brief scratch sizzles on Rozell's ankles at the unforgettable pain. And the burden in his stomach weighs heavier when Oxen offers him the ice-cold weapon, along with its threads and trinkets, as if they're a blessing.

"No one knows the Day-Lynx better than you. Mr. Clam also agrees after he went to O&C yesterday and saw your paintgraph." The nervous glint in Oxen's eyes urges him to back farther away. "He said that he would pay you twice the amount."

Rozell can hardly breathe after Oxen's words imprint themselves in his head.

Of all the risks he had thought of before selling that paintgraph to Mrs. Celine, the last thing he had in mind was how he would ever get in trouble for being known as the artist behind it. And now that it comes true, regret bubbles out of his chest like a gaping wound.

He hates himself for selling that paintgraph. Or for creating it in the first place.

"Do you remember when we first met?" The wrinkly maze on Oxen's face contorts as he speaks. "You said you would kill for a good beer. And I told you I had something I would like to dispose of." With the coldness of an experienced butcher, Oxen shoves the kunai to Rozell once more. "Here's what I've had in mind all along. And I'm doing this for my fallen brother."

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Later that night, Rozell's hand slips under his bed and traces the flawless surface of the nearly empty bottle. The potion's side effects are worsening each day. His bones often feel like they'll crack into a million shards. But nothing is worse than the animal corpses under his skin.

Rozell fears that one day, they might force themselves out of his back.

The muse keeps him awake until the sound of an unlocked door startles him. He grips his blanket tighter when the heavy boots clatter around the floor outside. His door budges under the pull, and Rozell sinks deeper into the quilt, faking calm breathing even when Grandpa's reeking scent of beer and smoke makes his nose sour.

"If only—" Grandpa stutters as if someone is choking his throat. He hasn't even continued when a loud thump echoes from the hallway.

Rozell leaps out of his cocoon to find Grandpa lying on the cold floor, his coat splaying around his lean figure. Dashing toward him, Rozell reaches for his stiff arms and circles them around his neck. His bones uneasily wobble as he piggybacks Grandpa to his bedroom.

Once Grandpa's well-settled on the bed, Rozell springs out with Grandpa's stinky coat in tow, zooming toward the bathroom for a basin of warm water and a towel. He also fetches Grandpa's clean winter clothes, some warming oils, and a glass of water, gingerly placing them on the bedside table.

As Rozell tends to Grandpa's pitiful state, another heavy tear slides down his cheek.

A man shouldn't even cry this much. But how can't I, when nothing seems alright nowadays? Why should every horrible thing happen together at once?

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That night, Rozell becomes a slave to a dreamless slumber. But once his arms tingle like there are hundreds of ants on them, he stirs awake and lifts his hand to his face. The sight of five sharp claws weakens his head. When he touches his cheek and finds coarse fur wrapping his freckles, he stifles a groan and curses himself inside.

Grandpa was drunk to sleep last night; I should've had that potion so I can take care of him all day! There's no way he can leave his bed in this state.

But once he turns into the Day-Lynx, the potion can't return him to a human.

Alas, why should I forget it in a crucial moment like this? Should I leave Grandpa alone then?

The dark sky outside his window tries to lull him back to sleep, but his eyes won't seal themselves shut. After a few torturing counts, he slides out of his blanket and crawls to the window. His paws unlock the wooden latch with barely a groan, and once he's sure that Grandpa doesn't budge from his sleep, the Day-Lynx leaps out to the snowy grounds and gently shuts the window back.

I need to clear my thoughts. Hopefully, winter solstice comes soon enough. I can't wait for the day with the shortest daylight to arrive; I won't have to be a Day-Lynx for long then.

With no clear destination in mind, the Day-Lynx shuffles farther from the cottage and enters the dark paths of the forest. The thin moonlight creates an eerie shadow on the ground: of a beast with a castle of corpses on its back, plenty of sharp ridges poking between the dead animals, and a massive tail that swings around like a lance.

Rozell inhales the cold air with numbness in his chest.

Once a beast, forever a beast. Death turned me into the Day-Lynx with a purpose. But what was it? Why can't I remember anything of our agreement that day?

Rozell climbs one of the sturdy trees and gazes at the vast black sky, wondering if specks of white will fall tonight. But when Rozell's eyes travel farther past Borealm Woods, he spots a barren and steep slope. A mysterious trail snakes through the snowy patches and disappears at the bottom of the descent. When a low rumble gurgles from that direction, Rozell's heart beats with both excitement and curiosity.

Borealm Woods still have tons of unspoken spots to explore, and in Rozell's head, it sounds a lot better than accepting Oxen and Mr. Clam's offer.

After all, no medicine or coins can ever cure one's dark thoughts better than an adventure.

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With the moonlight now switching places with the King of Daylight, Rozell slithers down the tree and sneaks in the direction of the giant slope he had seen last night. Though a part of his mind tries to yank him back to the cottage, the other is thirsty for adventures—a luxury he rarely has during the hunters' hunting season.

The sun shines sharp and low, enough to exhaust one's eyes. Rozell has to shield his face with his paws to keep going.

Only relying on the snow's thickness to lead his way, Rozell finally arrives at a branching path. He swerves rightwards—to the zone with graying trees instead of powder-white—since the other leads to Mountkirk Village.

The site's vibe is similar to the place Rozell escaped to with Ren's help, where the forest's malicious beasts glared at him from the trees. Rozell's fur tingles uneasily, urging him to flip his head around at the slightest rustles.

His guts don't seem to agree with the choice he has taken, for his paws unconsciously try to brake back. And the reason for it isn't merely because of their snow-covered state.

Moving around becomes twice as hard when the overhead branches take turns in scratching his head since they're bent low enough to the ground. Sighing to himself, Rozell tramples on where their roots should've been, and his chest gets heavier once he finds out that all of them are still firmly in place.

What's wrong with these trees?

Now shrinking under the tension, Rozell cowers away from the thread-like beings and quickens his pace, ignoring the noises he has made. His paws shovel through the snow and throw them around, creating light dust around his body.

It sure is too far to return now.

Rozell continues to advance, even when his limbs are screeching at him to stop. Not even the tunnel of slapping branches and the floor of sinking snow can dim his determination. Nothing's going to stop his little adventure—wait, is that a deer?

Rozell's ears tickle as the whitetail deer roams between the trees with her nose on the ground. Every several counts, she quietly bleats as if searching for something nearby. Rozell's Day-Lynx instinct kicks him awake and urges him to snag the deer's fat belly, but when their eyes lock together, a strange shiver rake down Rozell's spine.

The glossy black eyeballs contain a warning, but once a long arrow seizes its middle and drowns in its gushing blood, they turn blank.

It had told Rozell to run.

Rozell quickly clambers out of the snow. But barely a blink has passed when a net traps him in place. Its edges are stuck on the ground as strict as tent poles. The Day-Lynx growls and bites through the net with all his teeth, but barely a knot allows him to escape. His tail tries to lance through the material, but to no avail. Thrashing around in his cage, Rozell pushes his face forward and tries to heave the sticky net off the ground.

A brutal pain slashes his back open. Blood trickles on the snow like a drizzle, but it soon turns into rain when the teethed whip lashes over his skin again. He almost cries like a human. A few claws break under the snow the longer he refuses to surrender to the immense pain.

It's like his fur has been torn off his skin, for the wounded flesh stings worse in the cold.

A few steps from him, the deer lies motionlessly. A few men appear from the trees' back with machetes in their grip—one of them unwrapping a sack with a hungry smile. A few more surround Rozell—their tones are a combination of amazement and fear.

None of them even cringes when the teethed whip punishes the animals on Rozell's back again.Rozell's legs fall to the ground, shivering intensely. As the strength drains from his body, some familiar faces tower over his view.

A blue-faced Oxen, giving him a hardened stare as his grip around the whip tightens.

"For a beast, it sure is careless, isn't it?" The net seals him tighter in place, pressing onto his wounds and causes him to roar in agony. He blinks through his tears to find Mr. Clam with a curvy knife in hand, his lips trembling along with the weapon. "For a beast to not notice a fair mortal's eyes between the trees; how could it happen?"

The sun!

Rozell wriggles in despair.

I didn't see them because the sun shone low! Yet, how couldn't I smell them either?

"We should take it back to the village, Mr. Clam." Tesfaye's voice joins in to the crowd of murmurs as he stiffens next to the head of the hunters.

"We won't," Oxen says coldly, hatred pooling in his once peaceful eyes. He whips Rozell's back again, causing him to worm about in the net, and begs the darkness to take him away.

Just unconscious is enough. He doesn't feel the need to be dead just yet.

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Total Word Count: 26,925