In the following days, Capillata was confined to the high tower. Only during mealtime was he allowed to descend the spiral staircase and join the simple set table by the fireplace. There would be black bread, one or two slices, occasionally spread with animal fat, sometimes accompanied by a small trout. No words were exchanged. Father would always eat with his eyes closed, and he ate fast. But these few days, it was Capillata who finished first, leaving behind the bread that served as a plate, and quietly leaving the table to return to his room.

However, on the ninth day, the trapdoor was left unlocked. Capillata cautiously descended the stairs to investigate. Father stood in front of the wooden stand, preparing to hang the caught grouse on the meat hook. After hesitating for a moment, he placed it back on the stand and started plucking its feathers.

Capillata sat on a stool, watching his father cook. Fresh blood stained his trouser cuffs, and blood drops extended from the doorway to his feet. His physical discomfort caused him to occasionally fumble and stumble, murmuring a few words but saying nothing else. Capillata stood up and walked to his father's side.

"Father, let me do it."

The man didn't argue. He glanced at the boy and nodded slightly, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead, dragging his feet to sit on the stool. In the place where his feet had been, a thick, dark-red pool of blood remained. The freshly drawn red arrow were casually placed on the wooden stand, even leaving a trail of blood, revealing how painful it was to pull it out. Capillata stepped into the warm pool of blood, seemingly unaffected, and took over his father's task of handling the grouse.

The man tugged at the lapels of his hunting coat, overlapping the left side with the right. His rough fingers traced down along the reindeer skin, stopping at the blood-stained side flank. He applied slight pressure, pushing the fabric into the wound. A pained low groan rose from his throat, and to avoid disturbing Capillata, who was removing the entrails, he picked up a wooden cup and blocked his throat with cool, refreshing water.

Capillata spread olive oil on the clean poultry meat, then pinched some fennel and rosemary from the cupboard, sprinkling them evenly. He looked at the spice cabinet, hesitated for a moment, and turned to ask the silent father behind him:

"Saffron?"

The man moved the cup away from his face, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall, his pupils no longer trembling. He nodded slightly, and Capillata scooped up some vibrant red flower threads with a teaspoon.

"How did you manage it?" the man asked from behind as Capillata stepped on the bellows.

"Telescope," the boy temporarily stopped his steps. "I dismantled the lens." Then he continued to fan the fireplace.

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The man initially felt shocked, then pondered for a while. His expression changed from confusion to astonishment, and he couldn't help but let out a hoarse laugh.

"Does it hurt?" Capillata bent down, observing the fire, and casually asked. Father pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, emitting a murky cough.

"It didn't, until you decided to ask." He sighed and shifted his body on the wooden chair. "Continue doing what you're supposed to do." Then he lowered his beaver fur hat, crossed his arms, and tucked in his chin.

Capillata placed the roasted grouse on the table and sat opposite his father. He had maintained the same posture for quite some time, not snoring or groaning anymore. It was only when the intense aroma reached his nose, that he was released from the stiff posture. He widened his eyes, gazing at the blond boy in front of him, then looked around, lifted the cape, lowered his head to the large wound on his side, cursing under heavy breath.

But in the end, he still sat up straight, wiped his hands on his pants, and placed them on the wooden table.

"So, you took my words to heart, huh?" The man reached out and tore off a chicken leg, but instead of chewing it, he just held his hand suspended over the table, staring at Capillata beyond the surface. "'You, burdened with a curse, destined to never have a remarkable fate.'"

Capillata also didn't start eating. He just nodded, meeting the gray gaze with his own.

Using his withered yellow teeth, the father tore off a piece of meat. "But you refuse to give up, don't you?" His mouth lacked any saliva, and it was more of a precaution to prevent himself from choking on the chicken rather than chewing it.

"It seems your mother was right: You've stepped out of your own destiny." He struggled to swallow the grouse, wiped off the grease from his mustache. "With brute force, you have seized another way to shine. And in the end, this is the path you have chosen."

"Dad," Capillata lowered his gaze with a sense of desolation, "I'm not a good person."

"Nor am I." A trickle of fresh blood suddenly flowed from the corner of his mouth. The man noticed it and immediately wiped it away with the back of his hand. "For decades, I loathed you, just as I loathed myself. It's too late to change now. But in the end, I did see what I had left behind, although I'm not sure if it's a darkness deeper than the night or a brightness more radiant than the daylight - both of which can blind a person." He stood up, lifting the crossbow resting beside him, resembling a bandit.

"How do I look?"

"You look ready," Capillata glanced up at him one last time.

Through his eyebrows, the father briefly made the gray eyes meet, then blew the mustache on his chest, pushed open the wooden door, and stepped his hunting boots onto the sunlit yet still chilly grass.

After the wooden door closed, the tower returned to its former tranquility. Pale sunlight streamed in through the upward spiraling window frames, and dust danced in the intersecting rays of light. In the fireplace, the embers cooled down silently. Capillata looked at the roasted grouse on the table, picked up the knife and meat fork, and just as the meat fork pierced into the game, a faint swishing sound rang out - this time, Capillata didn't miss it - followed by the sound of birds taking flight in flocks.

Capillata put down the utensils, stood up from the chair, and pushed open the wooden door. The pale blue sky, deep green woods, and light green grass divided his field of vision into three, and at the edge of the grassland, a new rock slumbered.

He walked straight towards the rock-like object, arriving at father's corpse. The man lay on his back, his out-of-focus gray eyes reflected the blue sky, and the crossbow fell beside his loose fingers. Several arrows adorned with raven tail feathers were lodged in his chest and abdomen.