"The Residents, Barley II."

Wyatt's face, a canvas of shock and pain, contorted in a way that would have been comical under less dire circumstances. His cheek reddened as if painted with the very essence of the slap, the force of it echoing through the frosty air. The burly man's eyes watered, his jaw hanging slack, as if the very bones in his face had shifted to accommodate the unexpected impact. It was a sight that would have brought a twitch of amusement to even the most stoic of men.

"Wyatt!" Millie's voice was a whip crack in the stillness, sharp and furious. "What madness has taken you? Have you lost all sense of reason?"

Wyatt rubbed his cheek, his expression a mix of pain and confusion. "Elder Millie," he began, his voice shaking slightly, "I understand this is a lot to ask, especially in your current state—"

"Current state?" Millie spat out the words as if they were a curse. "I am as capable as I ever was!"

Wyatt held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Elder, please, I meant no disrespect. I only meant to say that we are all weary and in need of guidance. And if what you say about unity is true, then we must move swiftly to rejoin the others, maybe, our hopes are best served by following in behind Tobias."

"Tobias?" Millie's eyes narrowed, the fire in them not yet extinguished. "You speak of those who have sewn seeds of dissent among us?"

"Why would you leave the safety of the flock?" Millie asked, her voice a whip crack in the stillness, the words slicing through the frosty air. "Why, when we needed unity, did you choose to divide us further?"

"And all for an old fossil like me?" Millie's voice was laced with sarcasm, the flames of anger in her eyes flickering with a new emotion—hurt. "What makes you think that I, a person who has already lived a full life, is more deserving of further years ahead of the babe that she carries?" She pointed an accusatory finger at the pregnant woman standing meekly behind Wyatt, her eyes wide with fear.

The silence that followed was so profound it seemed to press down upon them, a heavy blanket of unspoken words and unvoiced accusations. The snowfall around them muffled even the faintest whispers of the wind, leaving only the sound of their own ragged breathing to fill the void. The weight of the question hung in the air, thick and oppressive, like the storm clouds that had brought forth the prophecy itself.

And then, from amidst the gathering, a soft, yet determined voice broke the tension. It was Lilly, her eyes shining with an unshakable conviction that seemed to burn brighter than any fire. "But you're not just any random old person," she said, her voice clear and steady.

The words hung in the air like a challenge, a declaration that cut through the doubt like a hot knife through butter. "What?!" Millie asked with a venom.

But Lilly, she didn't flinch. Instead, she stepped forward, her voice carrying the weight of the prophecy itself. "You're not just any random old person, Grammy," she repeated, her eyes never leaving the elder's own. "You're the beacon that brought us here, you are the very heart of Barley!"

The silence that followed was as stark as the snowy wasteland that surrounded them. It was a silence that spoke volumes of the trust and hope that the villagers had placed in Millie, a trust that had been shaken by the prophecy's cruel twists.

"Even if what you say is true, should we forsake those who have lost everything today?" Millie spoke, her voice echoing the gravity of the question. "What of those who have lost everything and then their humanity as a result of the events of today?" she asked, her eyes straying to meet Arteus.

"Should we force them to leave the sanctity of safety for fossils like me who have nothing left to give?" Millie's voice was a blend of anger and resignation, her eyes sombre despite the rage that laced her tone.

"What do you think boy?" Millie's question was sharp, cutting through the quiet like the crack of a frozen branch. "Does the prophecy whisper of our doom or merely a new chapter of suffering?"

Her question was aimed at the outcast, Arteus, and without hesitation he stepped forward, his eyes meeting hers without fear or hesitation. "The world does not care for our beliefs, nor does All-sky cast judgment upon our follies," he said, his voice strong and clear, a stark contrast to the whispers of doubt that swirled around them. "We, the people of Avaricia, are the architects of our own fate."

The group, which had been on the precipice of dissolving into chaos, held its collective breath, waiting for Millie's response. "Ha-HAHAHAHAHA!" Her chuckle, when it came, was unexpected, a warm sound that seemed to melt the very snow around them. It was a chuckle that spoke of a woman who had seen the world in all its ugliness and had found a way to laugh in the face of despair.

"Very well," she exclaimed. "Recount it all, Wyatt! Every single detail, no matter how trivial it seems. We must know the full extent of the prophecy's touch upon our village."

Wyatt nodded, his cheeks still flushed from the slap, and took a deep breath before beginning.

With her command, the procession commenced a solemn trek towards the Barley Reserves, the bastion of hope where her own son Castrol was said to have found refuge with the remaining survivors.

Wyatt's words painted a vivid picture of the chaos that had ensued after Millie's departure from the red-square. He spoke of the villagers' fear and confusion, the desperate searches for loved ones lost in the frosty embrace of the blizzard, the way mother nature herself seemed to turn on them and the grim realization that their lives had changed forever.

As they walked through the frozen wasteland that was once the bustling village of Barley, Millie couldn't help but feel a deep sense of loss. The world she had known, the lives they had all built together, had been swept away like sand in the wind.

Her thoughts were a tempest of grief and anger as she mourned for the community that had been torn apart by the prophecy's cold embrace. She had dedicated her life to the people of Barley, and now it felt as if the very earth itself had turned on them.

Wyatt's words grew more urgent with each step, recounting the chaos that had followed her departure. He spoke of Castrol's struggle to maintain order, of the villagers' desperation to find meaning in the madness. Yet, with every accusation he levied against the village Chief of Barley, Millie remained silent, her eyes fixed on the horizon...

...As they approached the outskirts of the village, the silhouettes of the Barley reserves emerged from the swirling snow, standing tall and stoic like sentinels against the coming storm. The barn and silo, once bastions of life and sustenance, now loomed like grim reminders of the long winter's cold touch.

The barn, with its weathered wooden slats and peaked roof, looked as if it had borne the brunt of the prophecy's wrath. The once vibrant red paint had been scoured away by the wind, leaving it a ghostly apparition of its former self. The silo beside it, a towering cylinder of steel, gleamed dully in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the warm lights that had once shone from within, beckoning the villagers to the bountiful feasts of harvest.

As they approached the structures, the faint whispers of fearful souls could be heard—the murmurs of those who had sealed themselves away from the horrors that roamed beyond.

"Castrol!" Millie's voice thundered across the icy landscape, resonating with the power of a thousand storms. It was a shout that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, a call that could not be ignored. "Heed my call and open these doors, lest you invoke the wrath of the ancients!"

The group, tense and weary, froze in their tracks, the very air around them seeming to thicken with anticipation. Even the howling wind paused for a moment, as if waiting for the village Chief's response.

And then it came, from within the barn, the sound of shuffling feet and the creak of heavy wooden doors being pried open met their ears. The survivors inside had heard Millie's call, a sound that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the prophecy they had hoped to escape.

The doors creaked open on their ancient hinges, and the musty scent of grain long spoiled and the musky odor of livestock that had perished filled their nostrils—a grim reminder of their precarious existence.

It was time for mother and son to reunite.

-To Be Continued-