"The Residents, Barley V."

Castrol sat there, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within him, his eyes a stormy sea that reflected the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. His heart felt as if it had been torn in two—half of it beating with the fierce love he bore for his people, the other half a heavy stone of regret for the decisions he had made. His breaths were shallow, his chest tight with the pressure of the unspoken accusations that filled the air like a thick, suffocating fog.

The villagers waited with bated breath, their eyes fixed on him like stars in the night sky, searching for the tiniest glimmer of hope in the darkness that had swallowed their world. The barn, once a bustling space filled with the warmth of life, now stood as a silent sentinel, a tomb of shadows that held the last sparks of their existence. The only sound was the rhythmic tick-tock of their hearts, counting down the moments until their fate was decided.

Castrol looked into the eyes of his mother, her gaze a tempest of anger and sorrow. He knew that she understood the gravity of the situation, the unspoken burden that now rested upon his shoulders. "Mother," he began, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the barn. "I am not a god to dictate the fate of our people." His words were a humble admission, a stark contrast to the power he had wielded in his earlier days as their Chief.

"My decisions," he continued, his eyes searching the faces of the villagers, "were made with the hope of a future less dire. A future where the name of Barley would not be forgotten, where our children could live without the shadow of the prophecy looming over them." He paused, his hands clenched into fists on the wooden surface before him. "I did not choose to abandon our home," he said, the words sticking in his throat like shards of ice. "I chose to ensure that there would be a home to return to, a legacy to carry on."

"But enough of this," Castrol said, his voice firm as he stood, the creaking of his crate a stark contrast to the silence that had settled over the group. "If you wish to know how your kin, Lilly and Gracie, were allowed to leave the square, then it is best you ask them." He turned to Arteus and the two young women, his gaze unwavering.

Lilly, sensing the shift in the conversation, took a tentative step forward, her eyes flickering with the flicker of the fire. "Fine," she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

"when... when Grammy first left the square, it felt like she had taken the warmth of the sun with her." Lilly's voice was a soft whisper that seemed to carry on the very breath of the room. Her eyes searched the floorboards as if the answers were hidden within the grains of wood.

"The whispers grew louder with every setting sun," she continued, her words painting a picture of a once vibrant community now cloaked in a shroud of despair. "Fear and doubt, they crept in through the cracks of our defenses like the cold that seeps into your bones on a winter's night. They ate away at our unity until all we had left was the cold embrace of suspicion."

At the time, Castrol had reached out and grabbed Lilly by the arm, his grip firm yet gentle, as if to anchor her to the reality of the moment.

"Have you gone mad, girl?" He had shouted, his voice echoing in the square like a thunderclap. "Leaving the safety of the square now would be to embrace the very jaws of death!" His eyes were wide, filled with a fierce protectiveness that could not be mistaken for anything but genuine concern.

But Lilly, her eyes alight with the fire of conviction, had only shaken her head. "Can't you feel it, Uncle?" she had asked, her voice carrying across the icy air. "Can't you feel the world unraveling around us? The very fabric of our existence, it's tearing apart at the seams."

The square erupted into a cacophony of voices as villagers took sides, their fears and anger spilling out like water from a shattered dam. Some called for caution, their eyes wide with the horror of the prophecy's unfolding. Others shouted for action, their fists pumping the air in time with the thunderous beating of their hearts.

It was then that Castrol's mind was brought back to the past, to the sacrifice that his brother George and best friend Miranda made—Lilly's parents. The memory was as vivid as the day it had occurred, the images carving themselves into his mind with a chilling clarity that seemed to cut through the very fabric of time.

A building had been engulfed in a raging inferno, the flames licking the night sky with a fiery dance that mirrored the chaos below. The screams of the trapped family pierced the cold air like the cries of lost souls, a symphony of despair that resonated within every heart that heard them.

In that moment, George Pennant, the then village chief of Barley, had been a beacon of hope amidst the horror. With a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the burning structure, he had charged into the fiery maw with no thought for his own safety. His eyes, filled with a determination that could have melted the very ice that bound the world, searched the smoke-filled interior for any sign of life.

The crowd outside watched in awe and terror, their breaths frosting in the cold night air. The sight of their leader, a man they had known all their lives, risking everything for a family that was not his own, was almost too much to bear. They whispered among themselves, their voices hushed with respect and fear. In the quiet village of Barley, where the biggest crisis was usually the weather or the occasional illness, the scene before them was as foreign as the lands beyond the mountain ranges that surrounded them.

Yet, not one of them dared to step forward, to offer aid, or to voice their thoughts. Their hearts pounded in their chests, a silent drumbeat of anxiety and hope. They knew that to interfere was to risk their own lives for the unknown.

Castrol was among this crowd, granted he was too young to be expected to fight the flames or even assist in such a dangerous endeavor, but he was there nontheless. Stood at the very front, his eyes wide with fear and admiration as he watched his older brother, George, charge into the blazing building.

As George disappeared into the inferno, the villagers' cries grew louder, their collective dread a palpable force that seemed to thicken the very air around them. But then, from the back of the crowd, there was a commotion. It started as a murmur, a distant rustling that grew into a crescendo of panic. People began to push and shove, their faces contorted with a horror that was only matched by the fire that consumed the building.

Someone was trying to make their way through the throng, their urgency clear even amidst the chaos. Castrol, his eyes never leaving the fiery spectacle before him, felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miranda, her eyes wide with terror and her face streaked with soot. "We have to help," she yelled over the din, her voice barely carrying over the cacophony. "We can't just stand here!"

But Castrol, though his heart was with his brother, knew the futility of her words. The flames were too fierce, the heat too intense. To enter that maelstrom of fire was to invite death, to dance with the very jaws of the beast that sought to devour them all. "No," he shouted back, his grip on her arm tightening. "You'll only get yourself killed!"

Yet, Miranda's eyes held a fierce determination that Castrol had never seen before. Her gaze was unwavering, her jaw set as she stared into the inferno. "We can't just stand here and do nothing," she said, her voice a mix of desperation and anger. "We have to try!"

Before Castrol could react, she had twisted away from his grasp, her elbow connecting with his chest in a sharp, painful blow that took him by surprise. The impact was like a jolt of lightning, knocking the wind out of him and sending him staggering backward. He watched, his eyes wide with shock and fear, as she sprinted toward the burning building, her cloak fluttering out behind her like a banner of defiance.

A short while later, George emerged from the flames, his clothes singed and his face blackened with soot. In his arms, he cradled a child, so small and fragile that he looked like a doll, his eyes wide with terror. The sight of them brought a collective gasp from the onlookers, a sudden intake of breath that seemed to suck all the air from the square. The flames licked at his heels like eager beasts, desperate to claim their prize, but George paid them no heed.

He stumbled through the crowd, his eyes searching for a familiar face, for the comfort of someone who could take the child if but for a moment. His gaze fell upon Castrol, and in that moment, the weight of his own inaction seemed to crush him like a glacier. Castrol's heart stopped, the cold realization of what he had done—what he had failed to do—spreading through him like an icy river.

"Mi-Miranda..." Castrol choked out, his eyes glazed over with the horror of his recollections.

In that instant, George's gaze found Castrol's, and in his brother's eyes, he saw the unspoken message. A silent communication that needed no words to convey its urgency. Castrol's eyes had held the reflection of the raging fire, the fear and doubt that mirrored the tumultuous emotions of the crowd. Yet, in that single, fleeting moment, George understood the unspoken plea for help, the desperation in Castrol's soul.

Without hesitation, George handed the trembling child to Castrol, the unspoken trust in his action a testament to their bond. The child's cries pierced the cacophony of the fire, a stark reminder of the lives at stake. Castrol took the child, feeling the weight of his newfound responsibility, and watched as George, his brother, his hero, turned away from the safety of the crowd, and run back into the burning building.

The world seemed to slow to a crawl as Castrol's eyes followed George's silhouette, a figure of valor against the ravenous flames. His heart swelled with pride and fear as George disappeared once more into the inferno. The villagers watched, their collective breath held, as the moments stretched into an eternity. And then, as if the gods themselves had heard their silent prayers and quickly hit 'ignore', the building groaned, a mighty roar that seemed to shake the very earth beneath their feet.

The structure buckled, its wooden beams snapping like dry twigs under the immense weight of the ice that had claimed it. The flames grew brighter for a brief instant before being swallowed by the falling debris, leaving only a cloud of ash and despair in their wake. Castrol's chest tightened as he waited, hope and dread intertwined in a suffocating embrace.

And then, there was silence.

The ash cloud cleared to reveal the grim truth: the building was no more than a charred skeleton, its once-sturdy frame now a twisted, frozen specter of what it had been. Castrol's eyes searched the ruins desperately, his heart racing with the frantic hope that George and Miranda had somehow survived the fiery maw. Yet, as the dust settled and the cries of the villagers grew quieter, the realization dawned on him with the cold finality of an icy tomb—they were gone.

It was then that a single question plagued the hollowed walls of his psyche; What right had he to measure the worth of one soul against another?

In Castrol's mind, the images of the past faded, and he saw the present, Lilly standing before him, her eyes shining with the same fiery resolve that had driven Miranda to her doom. The similarity was not lost on him. In those eyes, he saw not just his neice but a reflection of the friend who had been taken from him so long ago. The same reckless bravery, the same unyielding spirit that had once set the village alight with hope was now staring him down, challenging his very essence.

He couldn't comprehend why people were willing to sacrifice so much for others—why George had run into the flaming abyss for a family that was not his own, why Miranda had followed without hesitation, and why his own mother was now standing before him, demanding the same. It was a puzzle that had no answer, a riddle wrapped in the frostbitten fabric of their existence.

But before Castrol could piece together the shattered thoughts that filled his mind, a sudden streak of light pierced the gloom of the square, blinding in its intensity. It was a beacon that seemed to cut through the very heart of the darkness that had settled upon them.

The villagers looked around, their eyes wide with shock and awe, as the light grew brighter, revealing the outline of a figure that none of them recognized. The figure grew more solid, the light coalescing around him until it formed the shape of a young man, tall and lean, with hair the color of spun silver. His eyes were a piercing blue, like the heart of a glacier.

As the light dimmed, they could see that it was indeed a man—no, a boy, not much older than Lilly. He wore a robe of the Avarician faith but was far from anything holy. He was the boy who was rescued from that fire all those years back. 

And the man, Castrol would soon begin to know as the embodiment of human greed. Tobias Mitchell.

-To Be Continued-