"The Residents, Barley IV."

Wyatt felt the weight of the accusation as if it were a physical blow. His eyes grew wide, and his face paled, the color draining from it like the warmth from a snowflake in the sun. He took a step back, his shoulders hunching and his hands coming up to clutch at his chest, as if trying to protect his very essence from the verbal assault. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a friendly face, but found only the solemn stares of those who had suffered so much.

For a brief moment, it seemed as if time itself had frozen, leaving him suspended in that instant of pure fear and regret. Then, with a sound that was half-whimper, half-gasp, he opened his mouth to speak. But no words came out. Instead, his body language screamed of his turmoil. It was as if he had retreated into the shell of his own skin, a creature seeking shelter from the storm that had erupted around him.

But Arteus would not allow it. He stepped forward, his booted foot connecting with the wooden floor with a thud that echoed through the barn. "Speak, Wyatt," he said, his voice a gentle yet firm prod. "Tell us the truth of what happened at the red-square."

Wyatt's mouth worked, his eyes flicking to Arteus and then back to Millie. It was as if the very words were frozen in his throat, and only Arteus's insistence had thawed them enough to allow them to flow forth. "The...the truth," he began, his voice wavering like a candle flame in a storm.

"The truth," he repeated, his voice gaining a little more steadiness. "The truth is as I said it was, Millie,"

Castrol let out a sigh of exhaustion, the weight of his burdens seemingly heavier than the ice that had claimed so much of their world. His eyes were dark with the shadows of doubt and regret, and his posture spoke of a man who had borne too much for too long. The sigh was one of relief, of finally being able to speak openly about the events that had led them to this moment.

"The red-square," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "was our bastion of hope, the symbol of our unity and strength. But as the events of the day unfolded, it became something else entirely. A prison of fear and mistrust."

Castrol paused, his eyes distant as if seeing the events unfold before him. "The creatures of the night grew in number with every passing minute," he continued, his voice now a whisper of a memory, haunted by the horrors that had been visited upon them. "Their hunger was insatiable, and their cries grew louder, more insistent. We had prepared ourselves as best as we could, fortifying our walls, but their sheer number was overwhelming."

The villagers leaned in, their faces a mix of horror and fascination, as if by drawing closer, they could somehow absorb the strength of the words and the man speaking them. Their breaths were shallow, their eyes wide, and their hearts beating in rhythm with Castrol's tale.

"The barricades we had built around the red-square, they were strong, but not invincible," Castrol said, his voice carrying the solemn weight of a man who had seen his world crumble before his very eyes. "As the sun dipped below the horizon, the beasts grew bolder, their hunger for the warmth of our flesh driving them into a frenzy."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the floor, as if the very memory was too painful to hold. "But it wasn't just the barricades that began to fail us," Castrol continued, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the barn. "It was our unity, our trust in each other. As the nights grew longer, and the cold more biting, the whispers of doubt began to spread."

"Were we going to survive this?" He mumbled aloud to no one in particular.

The room grew so still it was as if the very fabric of reality had paused to listen to Castrol's words. His tale painted a picture of a nightmare that had once been their home, a place of warmth and life, now a frozen wasteland of despair. The crackling fire seemed to hush, the flames flickering in time with the heartbeats of those gathered around. The children, who had been playing in a desperate attempt to find joy in the cold, grew quiet, their eyes wide and unblinking as they stared at their Chief.

"It was then," Castrol said, his gaze shifting to meet the cowering form of Wyatt, "that I discerned the enemy was not only outside our barricades but within." His words hung in the air like shards of ice, cold and sharp, piercing the hearts of those who had doubted him. The implication was clear: the very survival of Barley had been compromised from within, a betrayal that had sliced through the very bonds that held them together.

The villagers exchanged glances, the whispers of doubt that had once plagued them now a silent symphony of accusation and fear. Castrol's jaw clenched as he took a deep, steadying breath. "I had to make a choice," he continued, his eyes flickering with a determination that even he never knew he had. "A choice that no man should ever have to make."

He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the faces of his people, each etched with their own stories of survival. "The weak, the old, the very young—I knew they couldn't hold back the tide of darkness," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "They had no place in a battle that was not theirs to fight."

Castrol took a moment to collect himself before continuing, "I sent them away, not because I abandoned hope, but because I had faith in the strength of our legacy. I knew that if we were to fall, it was their duty to carry our story, our spirit, to the farthest corners of the world."

The room remained tense as the villagers absorbed Castrol's words, their expressions a mix of anger, sadness, and confusion. Millie's eyes never left her son, her gaze a tempest of emotions. "Why did you not stand and fight?" she demanded, her voice a mix of pain and accusation. "Why did you leave Barley to the mercy of the beasts?"

Castrol looked at her, his own eyes brimming with a sadness that seemed to echo the very essence of the prophecy itself. "Mother, I had to think of the future," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very beams of the barn. "If we had stayed, we would have all perished. The prophecy would have claimed us all, and the name of Barley would have been lost to the frozen wastes."

A heavy silence fell upon the room, the only sound being the distant howl of the wind outside. The villagers looked at each other, their expressions a tumult of emotions—fear, anger, confusion. Millie took a deep, shuddering breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was filled with a resignation that seemed to come from a place deep within her soul.

"Today," she announced, her eyes sweeping over the gathered villagers, "the truth will come out. It is time for us to lay bare our hearts and souls, to share our stories and fears. Only then can we hope to find a way through the starry night." Her gaze settled on Castrol, whose own eyes were filled with a mix of pain and defiance. "I know you made a difficult choice, my son," she said, her voice heavy with the weight of understanding. "But choices have consequences, and it is those we must face together."

With those fateful words, the curtain descended upon the first act of the tragic saga that would come to define the fate of Barley.

-To Be Continued-