❄

"You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself becoming the villain," Opus hisses in Rozell's ears. "Truthfully, I'd rather see you die in that hut and never show yourself to the world again, Cottage Boy."

Even when touching the snow makes Rozell feel like there are needles on his paws, and even when the breeze howls loud enough for him to feel like they're blowing out daggers at his back, he doesn't stop running.

I have to escape—or Tesfaye's effort will mean nothing! How far is the cottage from here? Is it still far away?

Every breath he takes makes him dizzy. Still groggy after the suffocation in the hut, he dashes across the barren field and heads straight for a narrow opening between the trees. Shrinking between the gaps pains his wounds, and he has to sink his fangs into his lips to stop himself from whimpering in pain. Hiding behind the spots where the sun doesn't touch every few counts, Rozell strains his ears for any voices from the hut.

How will Tesfaye cover for my disappearance? And what will he do to save himself from trouble?

Rozell's belly aches with the lack of food as he zooms through the thick line of trees, but he's yet to gather his strength when a booming horn blares from the village. "The beast has escaped!" a voice shouts, reminding him of the hunters. "The beast is out of the hut!"

Rozell plunges deeper into Borealm Woods. The protruding vines deepen the scars on his back, hanging the scent of his blood on their tips. With his growl stuck inside his throat, Rozell swerves to the path leading him to his cottage. His chin hits the ground several times, but he forces his legs to swing faster. Even when his blood trails behind him, he no longer has the strength to hide them under the snow.

All I need is to go home before dusk.

His heart thunders in his chest when the noisy trampling of the hunters clamber behind him. Their voices are amplified by the trees, sounding a lot closer to Rozell. Whenever he whips his head back several times with dread, his steps become clumsier.

I need to get away from here. Fast.

But what if they find me first before I reach the cottage? Won't it expose Grandpa as well?

Rozell screeches into a halt, retreating to the direction of where the hunters had trapped him in the morning. The grayish trees no longer intimidate him. Though the winter air bites him harsher in this area, he chooses this path instead of getting Grandpa into more trouble.

He's got too much on his plate right now. And I won't be another burden for him.

A part of Rozell's head curses since this journey takes longer than supposed, for he'll have to seek shelter near the mysterious slope until the hunters surrender their search. And he still has to return to the cottage, which takes twice the distance of his previous route.

But he can't risk Grandpa's safety. His troubles are his own; it was his fault for being so careless to fall into the trap. It was also his choice to spend the day exploring the curious slope.

"Don't let it get away this time! Rip its head off if you need to!"

"We have to go separate ways. Oxen, take your men to scout Mr. Amberth's cottage again; I have a feeling its den is near. The rest of you take the route it had taken earlier today. Let's see what it's up to!"

Rozell pants until he's nearly out of breath. His chest burns inside as if a candle is licking it. His eyes are soggy with the tears he sheds to endure his pain. The gloomy path ahead of him offers several fallen trees and clumps of dirty snow, and he has to hoist himself over the barks with much struggle. Whenever his cheeks touch the snow, he longs to lie down, but the hunters haven't stopped following his tracks yet.

They are the actual beasts, not me!

When the line of trees comes to an end, the mysterious slope appears in his view. Its peak is barely visible behind the purple clouds. The clashing orange and violet in the sky briefly take Rozell's breath away, but when a startled yelp resounds from his back, Rozell snaps back to his senses and darts to the debris at the edge of the forest.

If only the slope has some trees and bushes to hide behind. Those hunters will have a hard time climbing there; they won't be able to find me.

Thorns and prickles scratch Rozell's fur once he dives into a scrawny shrub. He lifts his paw to his mouth to smother his gasps, but a soft surface touches his lips instead. Words fail him when he stares at his human fingers instead of his Day-Lynx claws.

He has returned into a human. And without the Day-Lynx's thick fur to cover him, a brutal coldness assaults his skin, chewing on each part like hungry critters. His gaping wounds threaten to burst open, and the pain gets much worse. He grunts at the sharp sting but quickly holds it back when pairs of heavy boots approach his hideout.

A wave of semblance hits Rozell. It reminds him of the day he died—when he had to hide behind a similar shrub to avoid Ren and her fellow hunters.

How ironic. Sixteen years have passed, yet things aren't getting any better than that.

Rozell cowers into a smaller ball and presses his body against the dried plant while trying to stay clear of the pricks on its stems. His teeth silently chatter as he wraps his legs over his waists in hopes of warding away the cold. The closer the footsteps are to his ears, the heavier his breath becomes.

"I don't see it anywhere," a man says, impatiently tapping his boots. The air becomes noisy and tense as the man ruffles through the shrubs and bushes, leaving the others glaring at the trees and readying their weapons. "It's gone, Mr. Clam."

"But how is it gone?" Mr. Clam gruffly says, his familiar boots carving big hooves on the ground ahead of Rozell's hideout. As the restless man glances around, Rozell draws his breath and clamps his mouth shut with both his palms.

A part of Rozell itches to tackle Mr. Clam on the spot and demands him for answers of why he's done all these. What is he looking for in the Day-Lynx? Why does he seem to have such a deep grudge that he refuses to let the beast go?

What has the Day-Lynx done to earn such spite?

"We can't go any farther now. There's nothing but a slope up there," a deep-voiced man mumbles, slowly retreating to the direction he came. "The beast was badly wounded, gentlemen. There's no way it can climb that high," he adds once all his companions tilt their heads up to the slope's peak. "And that place is known to be a common spot for avalanches."

"Avalanches? You mean snowballs often roll down this slope?"

"Not snowballs. Just heavy snow, wetter than the one we're standing on now," Mr. Clam mutters, his body tensing as he faces the slope. His whip—similar to the one Oxen used to hurt the Day-Lynx—limply hangs by his side. For a brief moment, he snaps his gaze at Rozell's hideout but quickly averts it when a new voice splits the air.

Grandpa's cracked out-of-breath voice.

"The village needs you, gentlemen," he pants out, startling Rozell and triggers various questions inside his head.

What is Grandpa doing here? Where has he been; isn't he supposed to rest after his collapse last night? Why did he go to Mountkirk instead?

An uneasy feeling settles in Rozell's heart. Bracing himself, he stares at the ground and binds his palms together in prayer. For a while, all his attention rests on Grandpa instead of his physical pain.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Amberth?" Mr. Clam steps forward, securing the whip back to his waist. The nearby trees seem to be listening as well, for nothing else fills the air else for the men's rapid breaths.

"I just came straight from the village." Grandpa doesn't look good. Even with blush heating his face, he is as pale as the snow, as if he's ready to collapse anytime soon. "And the villagers... they ask me to help spread the word. But they want me to go find you first."

Find Mr. Clam first? Whoever did it must be out of their mind. How could Mr. Clam be the first man someone sought for when there's trouble in their area?

"It's just—well, how do I put it? The villagers found a young lad in one of the funeral huts, and he is said to be an active member of Mountkirk's hunters."

❄

Total Word Count: 29,925