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After waving his lantern around, Rozell spots the peg where the town's small vessel is usually tied. But there's neither rope nor vessels during winter. While he touches the frozen lake, his other hand lifts the lantern. Underneath, a curious vermilion-spotted fish glances at the light before slyly darting away.

Well, the lake's surface is clear; it's safe to walk on.

With his eyes set upon the glittery little town, Rozell takes his first step. His boots' squeaks make his heart pound even harder. And his creaking lantern also doesn't help.

What if the ice breaks under me? Is it possible for the lantern to set this frozen lake on fire?

Rozell clutches his satchel tighter as his steps quicken. The slightest of sounds, even a distant crack, always make him jump out of his skin. The hustling wind also tries to throw him off-balance several times, but the gods must have mercy on him today for his boots can always find a firm footing.

Once he reaches the port at the edge of the town, which is a wooden slab shaped like a table, he collapses down and stretches his legs. His head feels funny like an eel is electrifying him. What's worse is that his limbs are aching more than before.

Rozell focuses on the two tree barks connecting the port to the next slab, which bears the town's guest cottage. His lantern's light can reach the bridging barks farther ahead: the northern ones leading to Avoridge Town, western ones to the fishermen's market, and the eastern ones to another guest cottage.

Why, he ponders as he dusts himself off the wooden slab, do these people use tree barks as roads and bridges? And why did their ancestors build the buildings on the wooden, table-like supports? Why should they establish a town in the middle of a lake? For trout's sake.

Gathering his remaining strength, he trots to the tree barks, balancing his feet on both of them. The barks wobble and grunt under his weight, but they—thank the gods—barely budge. Their edges remain secured in place even after Rozell safely crosses the first path out of many.

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The alluring scent of grilled duck and other poultries slap Rozell's frozen nose awake. Once he eyes his surroundings and meets the glimmers of Avoridge Town, the thumping in his heart recedes. He shoves his lantern into his satchel and wipes the dust and sweat clinging to his sweater while welcoming his growling hunger.

Lining on both his sides is several huts and taverns. The smells of food coming from each of them manage to muffle Rozell's wild schemes of the local display's acceptance to his paintgraphs. People's chatter and laughs bounce against his ears, making his steps giddy.

Avoridge Town only has a few hundreds of people, but their noisiness as a crowd might defeat another town double its size.

Harboring dozens of diners and entertainment stalls, the Main Spice section is the town's most well-known attraction. Some diners even offer menus only found in faraway towns; Avoridge would never have coconuts since they only grow in places the sun favors all year.

He only hasn't visited for a year, yet the town—this section, mostly—has seemed to evolve a hundred years into the future. The massive changes lower his guard that his steps aren't heading in a certain direction anymore.

He's supposed to visit the local display at the northern of the slab. But instead, he approaches the town hall at the center of it, from which barbaric cheers and pained chicken clucks are heard. As he hobbles up the stairs, a figure knocks him off-balance. Before he slips down, a hand grips his wrist as tight as rubber.

"Wait, Mielle?"

The girl heaves him up, her cheeks blushing either with rage or embarrassment. Judging by her high-pitched voice, it's a mixture of both. "Hey, you don't usually visit the town hall, Brother."

The breeze loosens the blackish-brown strands of her low ponytail. She now stands at the same height as Rozell; two years ago, she had only reached his chin. But they didn't meet last year, though.

How can two years be enough to add her height that much?

"Mielle," Rozell repeats in a calmer tone. "You don't usually visit the town hall." His hands urge him to pull her into a hug. But before they can leave his sides, his eyes fall upon the mayhem the town hall carries in its belly: a diamond-shaped arena cornered with ropes and pegs, two roosters with blood dripping from their feathers, tons of coins bulging out of two sacks, and people—mostly double Rozell and his sister's size—jeering out loud. Some of them spill their bottles' contents to the arena, giving a breathtaking effect over the fighting roosters.

Yet, none of it soothes Rozell's growing exhaustion. Mielle's tightening grip against his wrist makes it even harder for him to breathe. "Seriously? Now you're spending your nights hanging around with some murderous roosters and a group of grizzlies?"

Oh, how Rozell hates himself. His knowledge of words is never sharp enough to insult Mielle.

Instead of sulking at his remark, Mielle cracks an impish smile. She tugs him into the building, where the iron smell of blood overwhelms him. But Mielle looks unfazed as if the pungent scent is more familiar than the drool on her pillow. "I'm just here for the coins. Never for the silly fight," she whispers closely to his ears. "The locals believe that I can predict the results of every match. And they use it against the visitors, who know nothing about my talent. They also double my share whenever I get it right." She snickers.

How is being lucky a talent, Mielle?

Rozell shivers at how brutally the black roosters intend to hurt each other. They look as bloodlust as Mountkirk's hunters.

The one with a bluish tail dives to its opponent's middle. The other—a beautiful king with a black crown—strikes back with violent pecks. But Blue Tail's wing soon tackles it, tossing Black Crown to the edge of the arena. The crowd counts down from five, but Black Crown never moves its limbs again.

The crowd's celebratory cheers make Rozell's head spin.

Hopefully, Black Crown won't be another addition on the Day-Lynx's back.

"Uh, see you later then." Rozell yanks his arm away from his sister.

He hasn't even rushed down the stairs when she grabs the hood of his sweater. "Wait. Let me get my share. I'll walk with you." She zooms back into the town hall. When she returns with the pockets of her pants bulging out, he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Among every other way to get coins, why should his sister sacrifice a rooster's life?

"Now, it's not like what you think." Even for a sixteen-year-old, Mielle's sigh weighs as much as an adult's. They're walking away from the town hall, back to the direction Rozell came. "It's not like Ma is running out of coins. Or that Pa hasn't sent us enough. Well, I guess the last bit's true though—"

"Pa? He still comes back every two weeks, right?"

As a building planner, Pa and his team of builders have to stay at a certain place until they finish their projects. Sometimes, some builders will return to Avoridge, bringing Pa's messages and spare coins for his family with them.

After several decades, Rozell no longer prays to the gods to bring Pa home more often. Their family's minimum coins are a reason strong enough to let him work the way he does.

When Rozell glances at his sister, she is closing her eyes as if gathering her thoughts. "No, I think he doesn't. I've stopped counting." She gives him a sheepish grin. "He didn't send us as much as he did, I guess. Ma's being so tight on lots of things; imagine having to borrow a ribbon from one of my dresses as this"—she points to the ribbon around her ponytail—"instead of buying a new one. A pack of five ribbons costs less than one coin."

When the air becomes silent between them, Rozell clears his throat. "Still, it isn't a reason good enough to enter that slaughter barn. There are other good ways—"

"You'll be surprised once I fill you in about everything I've tried." Mielle's sullen tone betrays her quickening pace. She leads Rozell to an alley on their right, where the graceful smell of cookies and sweets hangs in the air like ornaments.

"Uh, where are you taking me?" Wherever Rozell glances at, rows of bright-colored sweets greet him. His stomach grumbles like an unfed monster, and he pushes his satchel to hide it; the sound might tempt Mielle to spend more than twenty precious coins to feed him.

"Here." She brakes in front of a big hut, with its front side torn down so the tables and chairs, along with the gothic decorations within, are visible to the passersby. The sign reads, "O&C's Replenishing Drinks". A strongly hypnotizing smell pierces Rozell's nose, luring him into the source.

As Mielle drags him inside, his eyes wander around like a lost traveler. Hand-sewn embroideries form several pictures on the walls, mostly of cups filled with brown liquid. The lamps are attached to several threads, which cling from the tall ceiling like monkey tails. Even the planked floor is carved with flower petals and grass made of bold ink.

This place should've been named 'Gothic Garden' instead. Or something like 'Peaceful Mismatches'.

"Of all the new places in town, I think you might like this one. You still like art even though they are abstract, don't you?" Once Mielle sits on the woven chair at the farthest part of the hut, she leans back into a more relaxed position, snatching a jar of sugarcoated sticks from the table.Rozell gently refuses when she offers him one; his eyes are too focused on the trails of art. He doesn't realize how Mielle's smile grows bigger as she kicks herself off the chair, still chewing on the stick.

"I'm going to get my drink now. We'll take turns later."

Rozell snaps out of his daze with a blush heating his cheeks. "Okay."

As Mielle's back retreats to the counter opposite of their seats, Rozell turns to his fellow visitors. Most are as young as he and Mielle. He averts his gaze to the young man wiping the glasses behind the counter, then to the racks lining up behind him. All three of them have signs of their own.

When Rozell's eyes land on the 'Harmful Fizzles' rack, which holds up bottles with transparent contents, his parched throat begs for attention. It has been one hectic day; drinking up something alcoholic won't hurt.

The bottles of brown liquid from the 'Charming Quietude' slightly tempt him too, while the 'Juicy Naturals' rack barely holds his glance longer than two counts since he's had enough of berries and fruits.

Well, Grandpa surely won't mind him spending some coins on beer tonight, as long as he has a good clutch over his self-control.

It's not like he drinks it daily.

Mielle finally returns with a giant glass filled with half brown and pink liquid. "Mind trying this Rowan Coffee?" She grins as Rozell sniffs the pleasant, hypnotizing-scented glass. "You must've never had them before. Neither Rowan berries nor coffee beans grow around here."

"Save some for me," Rozell mumbles as he leaves his chair, taking his satchel with him. "I'm going to get mine first."

Rozell gingerly treads to the long, black counter. The man responsible for it is now crouching on the floor. Soft clinks like shattered glass intrude Rozell's muse; what is this man doing?

"Uh..." Rozell's eyes trail back to the 'Harmful Fizzles' rack like a rebellious kid. Gulping down his anxiety, he says loud enough until the man flips his head toward him, "Man, I could kill for a good beer."

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Total Word Count: 11,925