❄

A splinter as sharp as thunder splits the wooden floor apart as Rozell's head clashes against it.

Somewhere in the black sky, an owl alerts its prey, but the critters near the cottage must not hear it since Rozell's whimpers cling to the air. As the dead animals burst out of his fur, Rozell's blanket can no longer hold back his cries.

The potion leaves his body as painful as its arrival yesterday.

A set of footsteps from the other side of the wall storms to the door, later pausing in front of Rozell's room. Several hurried knocks settle in. "Rozell, are you okay, boy?"

Rozell's fangs slice through his stuttering tongue. "I'm okay, Grandpa. Just a nightmare."

When the thin light from the hallway filters through the door, Rozell slips into the humidity of his blanket, still panting from the intense aches.

"How could you roll down the bed and made a mess like this?"

With cold tears stinging his eyes, Rozell grips the blanket until his palms itch. "I just dreamt of that dead man, Grandpa."

Only the crackling branches outside can interrupt the chilly silence in the room. It's like Rozell's heart is ready to leap out, forming another animal on his chest.

Who wouldn't, though, if a dead man had appeared in their nightmare and pulled them from the bed, straight into the snow?

After what feels like a hundred counts, Grandpa shuffles closer to Rozell, caressing the top of his head.

His Day-Lynx head. But the fur isn't much coarser than his human hair, thankfully.

"We can only pray for the dead, boy. Maybe they visit us in our sleep to remind us to do so. Or to remind us of them."

But Grandpa, Opus Renance is in my head to haunt me! I owe him my blood. I owe him half a leg as well.

When his tears can no longer perch in peace, a sob slips out of his lips. "Does it not scare you whenever Grandma visits you?"

It's like an unseen puppeteer drags Grandpa away from the bed, for his hand on Rozell's head slowly retreats. "Sometimes, actually. Your grandma is still the most possessive woman I know. She won't ever let me forget about her. Ever." Rozell imagines Grandpa's lips curling at the edges, mixed between comfort and grief. "She even came to me when we were in Avoridge, begging someone to find her body."

What? Why would she want that?

More questions try to claw their way out of Rozell's throat. But instead, he merely presses out a profuse apology for broaching the subject. Before Grandpa reaches his way out, he only chuckles half-heartedly and closes the door.

When the first sunlight strikes the mountain peak, tracing down the path to the cottage, Rozell hasn't moved from his position. Even when the light dares to enter his room and reveals the coat of dust and bugs at the corners, Rozell's mind is still racing with his nightmare of Opus.

Grandpa's wisdom only soothes him a little.

What if Opus is still as possessive as Grandma was? Does that forever make me his hostage?

❄️❄

Before Grandpa can knock on Rozell's door and hoist his building materials into the room, the Day-Lynx has leaped out of the window, huddling with the thinning snow of Borealm Woods. The morning air bites into his skin like ants, but the strong sunlight wards it off slowly.

Dragging his groaning body, the beast limps through the trees, aiming his sight to the bald branches and peeled barks.

His stomach roars like a bear cub, so Rozell heads closer to the cliff. A pool of berries always lies under a certain tree, from which bird nests and squirrel holes poke out as if the entire tree belongs to their big family. It's neither a white birch nor a lacebark elm—the most common trees in Borealm.

Over the years, Rozell discovers that the hunters purposely place some berries to lure their prey into the traps—his fate and the bird's that day were results of that.

Rozell has circled this tree and sniffs out for the smells of steel. And he always keeps an eye on the animals around him, either for injuries or misbehaviors.

But nothing shows up so far. The tree is as magical as the absence of the Day-Lynx's footsteps on snow. Not only it manages to keep a lot of berries stuck to its roots, but the tree's brown bark also has a woven pattern, similar to most clothing Grandma used to knit for the family.

After lurking around for a while, Rozell munches through a heap of winterberries. A blood-like substance crawls out of his fangs, but it doesn't stop the little birds overhead from flitting under his paws. Some squirrels and small mice glance at him shyly but soon dive in to join in the troop's breakfast as well.

Death must've convinced them to befriend him in the past.

Once, he saw a real lynx ripping off the throats of these poor animals. If his animal instincts were still over his human ones, they wouldn't have survived past this count.

Smiling to himself, Rozell glances at the bottomless cliff below. The walls are glowing in golden-gray as they bask in the early sunlight, tempting him to crawl through the vine leading to his cave.

The dark and moist cave welcomes him into its narrow jaw. Rozell lies in the middle of the cave, next to the wall where his claws once carved a bird. As the sunlight grows stronger outside, Rozell baths in the cave's homeliness, which soon lures him into a dreamless sleep.

❄️❄️❄

"My mother must be terrified to know she had recommended her daughter to smoke right in the beast's lair."

The gloomy voice jerks Rozell out of his nap. He presses his back to the wall, baring his fangs at the woman sitting cross-legged at the edge of the cave. The strong mint scent makes him cough.Rozell narrows his eyes and prepares to pounce at the intruder, bulging the dead animals he carries like a shield.

How is he ever going to stay safe if someone has discovered his last secret base?

"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me." When the woman looks back at Rozell, tossing her golden hair along with the wind, his growls wilt on his tongue. With her claw pendant still glinting on the top of her sleeveless vest, Ren blows the transparent smoke from her cigarette away. "Am just here to smoke."

The air smells of nothing but mint; she has no weapons with her. And the land above is still rowdy with whistling birds and chirping mice, so there must be no hunters around the area.

But then, why should she smoke all alone? Is she on a secret mission? How trustworthy is she?

Rozell retreats to the darkness of the cave. Keeping a watchful eye at the huntress's back, he readies a threatening snarl.

But she barely approaches him. Resting her back on the outer wall, she only stares at Rozell like he's a village cat. "Both Mother and I need this kind of escape—as much as men do. But they won't understand." A trail of smoke slips out of her lips, forming two rings in the air. The calmness in her eyes lulls Rozell's anxiety. "I'm sure you will, though. I never see you like a beast, after all."

Rozell's heart skips a beat. Blinking several times, he shrinks into the size of a lynx cub.

What does that mean?

The image of his tidied cottage, along with her uninvited welcome, slaps him awake.

But why did she have to sneak into the cottage?

The cigarette looks like a child's toy between Ren's fingers. Whenever she slips it through her lips, she closes her eyes, as if she's on the clouds. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I won't hurt you." And whenever she opens her eyes after that, her black irises are always eerily similar to a hunting eagle. "This place is your home, not ours. Mountkirk has no control over this forest and whatever it raises."

Rozell's tongue aches to speak the way he does to Grandpa every morning.

How can she be so calm in the presence of a beast?

"People believe that they should nail your head on the 'welcome' sign of our village. But you've done nothing wrong, haven't you?" As she crushes the cigarette under her boots, Rozell bulks his muscles up once more. "Even Opus' death has nothing to do with you. The jumpy old fool is the one to blame. And his group of silly bluffs too." She stares at the plain cave like a curious child. "Even I am to blame. I could've been there to warn the fool instead of cleaning traces of your existence in that little cottage."

Rozell's heart skips another beat. His sweat rolls down his body like a tide, making the animals on his back look teary.

But why would you do that, Ren? You owe me nothing!

When he follows the direction of her eyes, he gawks as a hole, hidden by tangled roots and dried vines, pokes out of the cave's roof. It's big enough for him to squeeze through, though too high to reach even with all his legs outstretched.

Is she going to jump into that hole?

"It's where you should go if another hunter ever catches you having a nap." A ghostly smile quirks up her lips, reeking the scent of mint. She reaches her hand out, almost to pat his head, but quickly draws it back when some trampling boots snap a branch overhead.

The sound of a harpy eagle's caw seizes the air. Only it doesn't resemble the actual one at all.Ren briefly touches her wedding pendant before giving the Day-Lynx a fixed stare. "If you're a good boy, it will lead you to the center of this forest. It's foggy and tricky to reach, but it'll surely be easier for you."

Another false caw calls out, followed by the distant flaps of wings. The sound becomes so close now—it might come from Ren herself.

"Now go before he gets here," she hisses. Her eyes lose their focus as she points at the hole rapidly.

With his breath still stuck in place, Rozell stretches his legs and jumps up, trying to reach the mouth of the hole. But his claws slip down the dirt faster than he can grab it. The ages-old debris also wraps his face like a spider web, almost causing him to grunt in disgust.

"Ren? Are you in there?"

His claws tingle just by holding onto the sandy dirt, but once a hefty force shoves his bum up to the hole, he lurches into the darkness quicker than he can blink. With his paws now stuck to the sides of the tunnel, Rozell catches up his lost breath.

"What are you doing here?" Oxen's harsh tone is nowhere close to the impression he gave on their first meeting.

"Do I look like I'm fooling around?" Ren's sharp tone no longer brings the soothing effect of the mint. "Instead of letting another one of Mr. Clam's stupid traps snag off my feet, I better wait if the beast ever comes here."

"You should've stayed back at Mountkirk," Oxen murmurs, the offense in his tone declining. "You won't have to deal with this burning noon. Let alone the beast."

"And let your heartless buddies shoot every moving thing in this haven?" she says. "I'm not only here for the Chief's order, but mine as well. We are guests inside this place, Oxen. We can't slice everything for Mountkirk's feast while the forest mourns its terrible loss all day. And I'm just here to ensure that."

Oxen's heavy sigh makes Rozell's chest tighten with dread. "It's just... I don't want to lose someone else after Opus."

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Total Word Count: 18,425