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The cottage is as silent as a graveyard when Rozell presses his ears against the door. There's no sound of clinking plates, running water, or even Grandpa's hasty footsteps. So after a few counts of gathering his guts, he cracks the door open with his maw and lets his eyes wander around the cottage.

Is Grandpa out to Avoridge Town to buy the materials for his damaged wall mirror?

Swallowing his guilt, Rozell slips through the door and hulks around the place. A thickly sweet smell lures his nose to the tray on the dining table, a few steps away from his room at the cottage's corner. The coldness of the wooden floor stops him from treading too quickly, but once he reaches the table for six, he rests one paw on the chair while pushing himself upward.

He has to control his tongue to stop it from wetting the entire table. For a tray of birch syrup cookies, smelling as clean and refreshing as mint, lies ahead of him. He might be able to fit five into his paw and chew them away in ten counts.

But there are a few things he has to do before gobbling up the whole tray.

Setting his paw back on the floor, he hides behind the table's legs and peeks through the gap. Both the windows at the cottage's front are slightly opened, allowing the misty breeze to dry the lingering sweat on his dirty-white, brown-spotted fur.

Even in this calm silence, Rozell's ears can prick up at the briefest of sounds. So he waits for either a bird's visit... or maybe another creature's.

If a hunter ever finds me like this, they won't spare me. Or even Grandpa—who knows if they'll accuse him of hiding the truth about me? Death won't be so kind to offer me a third chance, will it?

Rozell has barely counted to thirty when several heavy boots crunch against the snow, followed by lots of scratchy shovels and the smell of ash. The sound of grating steel hurts Rozell's sharp ears, and he has to put his paws over them to stop the pain.

Definitely more Mountkirk villagers. Or more like... hunters.

As sneaky as a rat, Rozell crawls under the table and lies on his stomach. It doesn't have much space to comfort the dead animals on his back, but he ignores it as the boots slowly step on the porch.

A hunter curses the gods at his squeaking boots. The uncleaned porch must be too slippery—maybe layered with ice already—for him to stand on. "Might leave with a bent spine soon," the hunter grumbles as his companions chuckle like jeering crows.

Every winter, when Mountkirk villagers visit Borealm Woods to hunt, Grandpa always packs up packages of some birch wood incenses, unfinished mittens and shawls from Grandma's knitting collection, and each a cup of boiled soup and water into a transparent bag.

From the day Grandpa started leaving them at the porch—a few years after Rozell's death—the rowdy men have always ravaged them like hungry wild cats.

Those hunters don't deserve Grandpa's kindness after everything they've done to the animals on my back. Or to the forest. Grandpa isn't the sentimental type to care about strangers this much; maybe Grandma had done it too before she died?

But would she still leave these packages if she knew how the receivers had been hunting her grandson and accused him of being a murderer?

Rozell mentally slaps himself. He tries to calm his heartbeat, but one of the hunters' voices worsens it instead.

"Ah, it's just enough for us four this time. Maybe the old grandpa is running dry of food." The hunter still mumbles as unclear and shaky as the first time they met, like a predator growling in front of its pursuers. The transparent bag rustles noisily in Mr. Clam's grip, as if shirking away from the experienced hunter's rough palm. "This winter starts earlier than usual, after all."

The footsteps on the porch quicken as they descend farther from the cottage, accompanied by more rustlings of the transparent bags. Several hands snag it away. Another hunter speaks with words too quick to be understood, "Maybe. I saw him out of here earlier. Though there weren't any bags with him, so he might not search for food. Didn't use any canes to walk him either. His back was as bent as the trees after a typhoon, but he could even walk down that slope"—a short pause follows—"and didn't even roll down by accident."

Rozell glares at the black, ash-smelling substance sneaking through the windows while holding his nose back to not inhale too much. It must be the nearly-slipping man from earlier, maybe smoking to soothe his nerves. His quick speech has shown bits of his jumpy nature too.

Still, how dare he look down at his grandpa after all the kindness he's shown—even though possibly grudgingly—all this time?

Pressing back his tongue, Rozell folds both his front legs under his chin. His eyes are getting heavier as the cookies' smell calms his insides, but with the smoke tainting the air, his appetite slowly fades away. Not even his growling stomach can tempt him to pounce out of his hideout and sneak the tray into his room.

He has to lie low until these intruders are out of earshot. Hopefully, none of them will peek through the window and notice something furred under the dining table. If they do, hopefully they'll mistake him as a rug.

A white, dirty-furred rug with dead animals sticking out its back... what an antique.

"Do you think we should come back later and leave some game for the old man?" another hunter asks in an innocent hare-like nature. It reminds Rozell a bit of his childhood days. "In case he doesn't find anything for his dinner today..."

"I think the old man won't appreciate it much," Mr. Clam grumbles, his teeth chattering between the spat-out words. "Besides, doesn't he have a boy with him?"

Good, don't bother coming back; I can help Grandpa on my own. You guys are standing in my way instead.

He's yet to breathe in relief when a woman, as intimidating as the forest's harpy eagle and its wide-ranged screech—calls out, "Has anyone seen the boy lately?"

On the day Rozell died, he had seen three hunters. Ever since then, only one woman always enters Borealm Woods—even out of the usual hunting seasons. She neither has a sack filled with traps nor weapons. She also never joins in the men's triumphant dance whenever they kill more animals than they usually do. Oftentimes, she only stands at the far corner, folding her hands as her eyes keep a steady watch.

The Mountkirk villagers always call her Ren. A harpy eagle, which always seems like screeching a dead omen out of its throat, will suit her well.

Why does she suddenly refer to me? Has she suspected me as the Day-Lynx already?

"I don't think so," the soft-spoken hunter replies. Something heavy and steely always clatters in his hunting sack whenever he moves. "Last time I saw him, he was handing over some of his paintgraphs to Avoridge's local display—"

"So he's a good paintgrapher?"

Rozell almost jumps out of his skin and hits the table at the other hunter's brash retort.

As if the first hunter's revelation isn't embarrassing enough to handle. Why are they talking about me now? They don't even know me... well, except Mr. Clam.

Rozell almost stretches his front paws away from the table. A glance at the clutter of boxes under the window, which might keep Grandma's unfinished sewings, lures Rozell to step on them and peek at the distancing hunters.

He has to remember their faces. Or one of them will have more materials to discuss regarding this lame paintgrapher.

"Why are we discussing the boy now?" It's like Mr. Clam has stepped hard enough on the talking mouths to seal them shut. But for once, Rozell has a bit of 'thanks' on his tongue. "He's still nothing but a giddy boy, sticking to his grandpa like a maple tree's sap. We still have some hunting to do. Better save your energy."

Swallowing the sharp 'thanks' down his throat, Rozell crawls out of his hideout as carefully as a newborn. A tight pain clutches his chest, but he ignores it by climbing the chair and reaches out for the tray of cookies.

His worry about getting found out almost disappears. He might as well jump out of the cottage and scratch Mr. Clam's face until there's nothing left but his skull.

"What are we looking for this time?" But once Ren fills the air with her cold tone, it seizes Rozell's muscles and forces him to freeze. He shudders at the possibility of her cursing him with a wicked spell. "We haven't found any deers this week. Maybe we should try our luck today."

"Just... get me some berries for our stock and some deer meat for dinner."

Holy birches—berries and deer meat; how could he forget those? They had slipped out of his head as he lay under the table.

He has wasted too much time. What if he can't find them all before Grandpa returns this dusk?

But Rozell has never killed something. Not even when his Day-Lynx mood gets easily triggered. Or when his stomach begs for a restock, but Grandpa's food storage is empty. Neither when every animal he meets can be roasted or grilled into something juicy in his starved imagination.

Should I visit Mountkirk's market and buy some deer meat? But it only opens during daylight, and I'm stuck as the Day-Lynx. Wait, didn't Ren say how they should hunt for deers? Maybe I can keep an eye on their traps and steal one once it gets caught?

Rozell's tongue is craving for the sweet crumbs of the birch syrup cookies, but both his brain and muscles have a different schedule. His paws still hang like puppets in the air, and his brain is still exploring a maze full of options.

But I can also drink that disgusting potion. The one a harpy eagle—sent by Death, perhaps—once brought to my room a few days after my death. The one bottled up so tightly because it smelled like rotten corpses, colored like bones, and tasted like snowy papers.

His body's memory of the potion's effects causes him to shiver. It hadn't taken a few counts to suffer; it was like hundreds of dead animals were trying to push and rip through his skin.

He'd used it to remain in human form in daylight, but the pain ripping through his body lasted until his next transformation.

I've promised to only use it in really urgent situations, and I've only drunk it four times so far. But is it also worth the pain this time?

Hurrying to the big chest near the table, Rozell tears the lid open with a creak and pokes his head inside. A musty smell tickles his nose, urging a sneeze. The chest is divided into smaller boxes: one keeps Grandpa's herbs, another keeps his fruits and berries, another one for meat—wrapped in transparent bags, and the last one keeps his cooking ingredients.

There are still a few contents spared in all the boxes, except for the third.

No wonder it's been a while since we ate meat. We've been eating lots of plants these days. Cookies, pies, bean-stuffed buns... holy—what's that noise?

Rozell leaps away from the chest once an abrupt scuffle catches his ears. Two pairs of bloodlust-filled eyes—staring from the window above him—force Rozell to rein himself in.

But it won't be for long.

"Forget your deers, Ren. We have the Day-Lynx to feast on tonight."

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Total Word Count: 5,928