Day-Lynx (EDITING)

Sixteen Remaining Counts

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"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.