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The dust crawling out from under the bed tickles Rozell's nose. He tosses around on the floor, cringing at the wood's harsh coldness against his skin. He holds himself back before his claws can do more damage to his body, but when he lifts his paw to his face, five slender fingers and neatly cut nails greet him instead.

His surroundings are nearly black now. The wall mirror he last saw before he passed out on the floor can't reveal his figure anymore. He can't even see the snow crumbs that had trailed behind him once he got into the cottage and lumbered straight into his bedroom.

Whoops. Grandpa's lips will stretch to their maximum length once he sees them. And so will the mop he always uses every morning.

Patting his sweater, which is still intact even after his transformation, Rozell kicks himself off the floor and stretches his muscles. His neck cracks like a snapped branch, maybe thanks to the reckless head-whipping throughout the chase. The aches taunting his arms and legs before his sleep remain, but they're less disturbing now.

His nap has healed him a lot. Better than any recovery potions the villagers or townsfolk have donated to the cottage over the years.

Only the faint bird chirps and chattering hares from the outer world can disturb the stiff silence in the cottage. Rozell breathes in relief since Grandpa isn't home yet—if he can't get home before dusk, he usually stays the night in Avoridge Town.

Then Rozell is on his own tonight.

He heads to the living room, where Grandpa always keeps his stock of candles, lighters, oil, and other brightening ingredients. His head still spins as if someone is shaking it like a crystal ball, and he has to place a hand on the wall to guide his steps.

The sight of the now-locked windows briefly ushers Rozell's relieved breath back to his lungs.

What did Ren try to do when I left the cottage?

Dusk has fully mantled around Borealm Woods when the entire cottage finally blazes with a comfortable warmth. As his shadows crawl up throughout the walls like sneaky lizards, Rozell's stomach shivers with fury.

He glances at the tray of cookies on the dining table. When Rozell puts one into his mouth, a sharp chill pains his teeth. But before his stomach can scold him any further, Rozell manages to chew through all the cookies.

But wait, what will we have for dinner?

He stops licking the crumbs on his finger when Grandpa's words from this morning ring loud and clear in his head.

Holy twigs—I forgot to get some berries and deer meat for the second time today!

He can sneak out some berries from his storage—if they haven't rotted yet—but what about deer meat? Should he visit Mountkirk's meat seller and beg them to sell it, even though it's past their working hour? Hunting isn't an option; he never wants to hurt animals by himself. And the dead creatures sticking out of his Day-Lynx back are reason enough for that.

But can I bear the look of disappointment on Grandpa's face again? What will he say, after being so upset at me for the wall mirror and also my unsold paintgraphs?

Wait, what if he sells those paintgraphs? It'll earn enough money to stop Grandpa from scolding him again.

But whenever I visit Avoridge Town, I always stay the night there. Should I bring the cursed potion then?

Marching back to his room, Rozell kneels next to his bed and grabs all of his unfinished paintgraphs. He arranges them on his bed before diving in again, reaching for the box he locks against his bed. He flips all the seals open with dread pooling in his heart. The bitterness of the potion weakens his tongue, while the thoughts of visiting Avoridge after almost an entire year make his hands tremble.

The box lies innocently on the floor once he untucks it. A few tricky clicks reveal the bottle underneath the lid. Next to it are a handful of berries, thankfully still ripe and aren't smelling unpleasant. He also scoops them up to his bed, while keeping them away from his paintgraphs.

Drawing a sharp, determined breath, Rozell crouches down again to reach the satchel he keeps under his bed. When he pushes the bottle inside, his fingers accidentally brush against a bunch of clinking coins. After he finishes counting without plucking them out, he swallows another lump of guilt.

Not even his yearly saving can buy enough materials to patch up his mirror. Or even refill his drained art supplies.

No wonder he deserves an earful from Grandpa. Where has all his money gone throughout the year? And if he rarely goes out and still doesn't have a decent amount of coins, what about Grandpa?

A heavy sigh leaves Rozell's lips as he clutches the satchel limply. The lantern sheds a brief light over his paintgraphs, where some paint strokes are too thick or simply too messy to form an actual scene.

One paintgraph—grasping the eeriness of the nearby cliff from above—is too stiff; the blackness of its endless maw is as plain as the night sky wrapping around the scene, not enough to make him shiver.

Another one—a scene of a lantern-lit Avoridge Town seen from Borealm Woods—isn't as satisfying as his eyes felt that day. Now the lights aren't too different from fireflies, shining in vibrant colors instead of their usual gold.

A cry tries to shred through his throat, but Rozell's mouth clamps shut. His fingers are ready to hurl over his mess of paintgraphs and scratch the colors away. Even the bowl of brushes looks good enough to practice his jabs on.

I can't do this. I can't even get myself to fix these paintgraphs; how am I going to sell them? Oh, for Grandpa to think so highly of me to get some fine coins for these pieces of scrap.

But when his blurring gaze settles on a hidden paper behind the other paintgraphs, he smooths it out and narrows his eyes. His incoming tears now bring some joy after the paintgraph forces him to open his eyes wider, in fear of the creature jumping out of its paper cage and gnarling him into mere chunks of flesh.

The fear barely lasts longer than three counts. It carves a satisfied smile on his face instead.

If only more people would be awed when they see this creature's depiction.

A beast colored like the dirty snow, with several blooded animals forming its misshapen limbs. Two imaginary antlers—made of twigs and dead leaves—majestic enough to match a king's crown rest on its head. No blood peeps out of its fangs and claws, but the dried scars and wounds peppered on its skin give it the blunt fierceness of a tiger. The trees, now blanketed in snow, form a tower around the beast.

There are no clues to give out that the paintgrapher is actually the drawn beast, except for the same ash-black eyes they share.

Rozell's heart thumps in his chest. With his head a bit higher in the clouds, Rozell climbs his bed and moves to the other side, before kneeling next to it. He opens the drawer, which smells like centuries of dust, and fishes out a transparent bag. With his cheeks aching at his giant smile, he stuffs his self-portrait into it.

Less than thirty counts later, he sits cross-legged against his bed, with a brush in hand and the paintgraph of Avoridge Town on his lap. The others are queuing next to him, becoming silent witnesses of how not even the dim lighting can prevent the paintgrapher from deftly stroking the paper with paint, just like a god coloring the world.

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The brash wind doesn't whip more snow to Rozell's face once he exits the cottage.

As he adjusts the cloth hat to cover his hair, he grips his satchel against his chest. He bites his lips to stop them from revealing his chattering teeth. The trees looming over him look like giant statues during nighttime, watching his moves. Gathering the hare-sized courage he has left, he descends the slope leading to Avoridge Town.

Even with the lantern in hand to lead his steps, he still trips over fallen branches or jutting debris. The snow hill almost buries his boots, and they sometimes cause him to slip where the snow is nearly liquid. But with the promise of Grandpa's smile in his head, Rozell's insides warm up.

Maybe my paintgraphs will get better luck this time.

The whistling wind carries out the voices of distant animals. Even with the sweater clinging to his chest, Rozell's heart still jumps out at the abrupt rustles from the nearby bushes. Sometimes he glances up to the trees, searching for a certain bird's silhouette and its predatory eyes while praying it won't swoop low against his face, and snatches his cloth hat away.

There are probably more threatening beasts within Borealm Woods, but nothing scares Rozell more than a harpy eagle. After all, its cawing can make Rozell jump out of his skin even from the other side of the forest. Not to mention, Death had also trusted it with the cursed potion meant for Rozell.

After repeatedly swallowing his anxious thoughts, Avoridge Town greets him from below with its colorful glows. Just like the scene in his paintgraph.

His legs are grunting due to the hard work they still have to endure after the torturing day they've had with the hunters, but he forces them onward. His body also begs him to lie on the snow and faint, yet he still ignores it.

He has to get to Avoridge Town and sell a few paintgraphs. Or Grandpa will come home sour-faced and lecture Rozell for not preparing a deer sandwich.

Just a little more.

The snow hill gets a lot steeper the closer he is to his destination. More fallen twigs and other scattered debris spring out at him, causing him to yelp and leap away several times. His satchel feels heavier in his arms, but he won't let it slip out.

Just a little more and you'll be there.

A sheet of tears appears in his vision as the wind cradles him softly. His teeth are chattering louder than the forest's restless critters now. As the trees lessen, a shard of moonlight guides his way down the slope, bringing a thin smile to his bluing lips.

Even nature approves him to come here tonight.

But the sound of scuffling boots snap Rozell's attention to his right side, where a few lantern lights appear behind the trees—coming from the direction of Avoridge and heading straight up to the mountain, which has none other than Mountkirk Village. His legs jolt awake again, ready to sprint straight into the embrace of the little town.

However, the sullen voice coming from the lanterns stops him in place. "There's a chance he might not see the sun anymore."

Though both his curiosity and sense of urgency are still warring inside his head, Rozell's legs already have a decision of their own. He darts down the slope as if a harpy eagle is trying to peck on his cloth hat.

Once he reaches the edge of the forest, where the land has given way to a frozen lake, he clutches the nearest tree bark and catches up his breath. His mind races with jumbled thoughts.Rozell can only close his eyes and whisper out a faint prayer to the gods when one thought finally makes the most sense; he must've run away because he couldn't bear the knowledge of knowing who might spend his last breath tonight.

He also couldn't bear knowing that he might be responsible for that person's fate.

Now he can only hope that the person's upcoming death doesn't have anything to do with the traps in Borealm Woods this noon.

Opus shouldn't die as I did.

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Total Word Count: 9,925