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[GRANDPA'S POV]

Ever since Mielle and her mother discovered him falling asleep on the front porch for the entire night and still survives—even with badly frozen muscles and bluish veins—a train of lectures and warnings hasn't stopped showering out of the women's mouths. They have bundled him with the warmest coats and sweaters in the cottage, poured him dozens of hot drinks, and coated his exposed skin with fragrant oils to heat him.

Their anxiety is too much for him to bear. At least he hasn't turned into a snowman. Or even an ice cube. They should've let him be.

That morning, the cottage is in fuss without Rozell's presence. As Mielle and her mother wander around and search for the missing boy in every corner they pass by, Grandpa doesn't even bother to join them. He can only try to soothe his heart, which continues to beat uncomfortably ever since his grandson left him alone at the porch last night.

Grandpa doesn't even know how to position himself as Rozell. What would he do if they switched places? He might've run away already.

Rozell's mother also hasn't stopped rambling in panic as she preps both Grandpa and Mielle to attend the funeral. For an outsider, she might look like she's preparing them for an overseas trip, for she packs a lot of condolence gifts for Tesfaye's family and double-checks them every once in a while.

While Grandpa understands her restlessness for the demise of her friend's son, he can't help but mourn in silence since she reminds him so much of Serenade. Both women are equally tactful in their daily jobs. He used to question how his wife could survive the days with that many routines and monotonous activities.

Maybe the thrill is always saved for the men. But that young Mountkirk huntress is an exception. I've never seen any women breaching through the popular jobs for us men.

Grandpa spends the entire day keeping his thoughts to himself, even when his memories continue to slip out of his head. His consciousness also comes and leaves like a confused guest, not knowing where and when to settle down in a comfortable position.

Once the entourage sets foot on Mountkirk, he only manages a neutral frown at those that greet him. His old fellow hunters—including the young ones, like Oxen and his wife—take turns in engaging him in a conversation, but barely a word gets to stick into his ear. His granddaughter repeatedly nudges his rib whenever the Chief says something important during the funeral—or maybe he's delivering a speech; the lines between the two are blurry for Grandpa—but it's difficult for him to nail his attention at the village's most respected figure.

The disturbing snippets of his conversation with Rozell last night still fill his ears like cotton, refusing to allow anything else from replacing their spots. He almost staggers off his seat several times at the discomfort in his stomach whenever he imagines his grandson as the forest's most notorious beast. Dizzying stars dance in his vision every so often, mixing up his reality and the imageries only his head can conjure.

Has he ever killed someone? And was he the one killing Tesfaye as well? Why would Death turn him into that?

"May Tesfaye Goodart's soul live among us, blessing our village and spreads the good harvesting from it. May the gods lead him to the merciful path promised to many. And may his human deeds be forgiven," the Chief shakily says, binding his hands together into prayer. The poor man looks more hunched than usual, and the wrinkles and curves on his face become clearer. "And may the gods save our village from more unfortunate events in the future. May they also forgive our sins and accept our prayers."

But no matter how hard Grandpa's heart slaps him awake to refocus on the ongoing ceremony, his brain still won't stop creating schemes and questions inside his head.

Holy gods, but what about the path you have thrown us? My grandson will always feel threatened for the rest of his life. Hunters never stop hunting and setting up traps until their prey gets caught.

What am I supposed to do now? Whose side should I pick? It gets harder to remain innocent when the sought prey is already waiting inside my cottage. It's hard for a hunter to lie down and do nothing when a single shot can already take the prey's remaining breath away.

And it gets more difficult to decide; what if my grandson truly deserves the villagers' punishment? Or worse: what if he doesn't?

Before Grandpa can pick up his sense of surroundings once more, a soft, delicate hand already guides him off the seat. The visitors wait in a neat line as they take turns paying their last wishes to the dead youngster in the same hut where he had died. Some of them whisper among themselves while casting a suspicious look at the young huntress behind Grandpa's back.

Grandpa soon lurches back to his reality at Ren's nervous shifts, and he throws a narrowed glance at her. Her cheeks are as pale as the snow. She also hasn't stopped fidgeting with her gloves either. And even when she already wears some warm winter clothing, her shoulders still involuntarily shiver. "Everything alright for you?" he gruffly asks.

The woman snaps out of her daze and blinks several times before throwing a forced grin at Grandpa. Whenever something is about to slip off her tongue, she closes her mouth, holding it back in place. And it takes a few heartbeats before she dares to catch Grandpa's attention once more. "Not quite, I-I think."

"Not quite?" Grandpa sighs, almost grumbling at how indecisive she sounds. His foul mood needs more reassurances instead of doubts. "If there's anything I can help—"

"Dad! Mom! The tooth goblin must have dropped this in the hut," an enthusiastic girl's voice chimes in from the front of the line, but it quickly turns into a shriek as she tumbles down into the snow.

Grandpa gawks in horror as Lucian—Mr. Clam's wife—stands rigidly with one hand trembling on her side, a soundless stutter bubbling out of her lips. The crowd slightly inches backward, both men and women murmuring among themselves.

Before long, Mr. Clam rushes into the scene and hurries to help his crying daughter on her feet. "What is the meaning of this, Lucian?" His tone sounds stiff and accusing like he's a judge to her crimes. "What have you done to her?"

A flood of tears curtains down Lucian's face, which now resembles a crumpled paper. She throws a sharp object to the snowy ground and darts away from the funeral hut, her scarf flailing wildly behind her back. The crowd erupts into louder murmurs as they stare at Mr. Clam's hardened expression, who later zooms away from the scene as he carries his sobbing daughter on his back.

The family's feud triggers more rumors and theories among the mourners. Their voices only recede after the Chief steps into the scene and begs them to remain silent, for they are honoring a dead man instead of going to a village gathering.

However, Grandpa never spares his ears for such baseless accusations. So instead, his eyes roam around the ground, searching for the object Lucian threw.

The child had mentioned the tooth goblin. Did she find a tooth in the hut?

Grandpa's heart spikes with anticipation once he spots the chipped object nestled in the middle of the snow. His old eyes might be enough to search for a missing item, but he has to grasp it first to identify what kind of tooth it is.

Whose tooth can it be? If it's proven to be Rozell's, then it's going to be harder to save him.

But what if it belonged to another animal? Or what if it's a building material that looks like a tooth?

I have to try to clean my grandson's name out of this mess. He won't have to be responsible for a crime he didn't commit.

Driven by his childish schemes, Grandpa collapses onto the ground and clutches his ankle, writhing in pain. "Ah, my legs! Screw these silly cramps!"

The crowd's attention soon turns to his ankle. Mielle immediately crouches near his feet and massages where his sore spot should've been—poor clueless child, Grandpa sneers—while Ren clambers behind him and helps prop his shoulders up to keep himself in a comfortable sitting position.

But Grandpa manages to sneak the object into his palm and shoves it into his coat's pocket—all while faking a protest for the 'ant-like feelings' on his ankles. And it doesn't cost him more than five counts to determine that the material is familiar to his fingertips.

Dull silver, so this tooth must come from one of Mountkirk's weapons. But wait, could it be from the teethed belt the hunters often use as a whip?

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Total Word Count: 36,425