"Mathias Blanche, Barley VI."

Silence fell upon the square like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. It was as if the very air had been frozen solid, trapping their breaths within their chests. The flames that once danced before them now seemed a distant memory, their warmth a cruel trick of the mind in the face of this new, more terrifying presence. The villagers stared at the stranger in a mix of awe and fear, their eyes reflecting the icy blue glow that emanated from his very being...

Millie, her gaze unwavering from Castrol, leaned forward, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife through frozen meat. "Is this true, Lilly?" she asked, the words a demand that hung in the air, thick with accusation and doubt. "Did you leave the square during this... this...?"

Castrol's hand tightened by his side, his knuckles white as bone. "Distraction," he finished for her, his voice a low growl that seemed to echo the very tension that thrummed through the barn.

The villagers, still stunned by Castrol's revelation, looked at one another, their eyes filled with a mix of horror and disbelief. Some whispered among themselves, their words lost in the heavy silence that hung over the room like a fog.

Lilly, her eyes still fixed on the floor, felt the weight of their gazes upon her. Her heart raced, thumping in her chest like a wild animal caught in a trap. The air grew colder, and she knew the moment of truth was upon her. She had to speak, to explain why she had left the safety of the square.

"Y-yes, Grammy," But all she could do was whisper her response, her voice trembling with emotion.

Millie sighed heavily, the weight of the world seemingly resting on her shoulders. Her eyes never left Lilly's as she asked, "And you Gracie? How did you manage to escape the square?"

Gracie's eyes widened, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress.

"You know what," Millie said suddenly, her voice a soft but firm whisper that seemed to cut through the heavy silence like a warm knife through butter. "Never mind, Gracie. I don't think I want to know."

The atmosphere in the barn shifted, the air thickening with the scent of regret and recrimination. The villagers' eyes darted to one another, the weight of the unspoken accusations hanging heavily between them like a web of invisible ice. The warmth of the fireplace was now overshadowed by the chill that had seeped into their hearts. The once united group of survivors now stood divided, their whispers carrying the weight of doubt and suspicion.

"Very well," Millie conceded, her voice a brittle thread in the tempest of emotions. "Let us move on to the second question, then." The room remained silent, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace, which now seemed to mock the chill that had taken root in their hearts.

What led Barley to the precarious situation she found herself in?

The villagers looked around at one another, their faces etched with uncertainty and fear. Castrol felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he braced himself for the words he knew he had to speak. "It all started when I realized Gracie was missing," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

In Castrol's recounting of the events that led Barley to the situation she found herself in, he chose to focus on two men of the faith—Tobias Mitchell and Mathias Blanche.

Tobias Mitchell, the one who had once been the boy saved from the flames, had grown into a man whose very essence was a tempest of passion and greed. His eyes, once filled with the innocence of youth, had hardened into gleaming orbs of unbridled ambition. The warmth of his youth had been replaced by a cold, calculating hunger that consumed him from within, much like the flames that had almost claimed his life. His silver hair had become a crown of frost, each strand a testament to the coldness of his soul.

In contrast, Mathias Blanche was the epitome of what an Avarician holy man should be—his visage a bastion of piety and calm. His eyes, a deep, comforting brown, held a warmth that could melt the most frigid of hearts. His robes, though simple and unadorned, were a stark white that seemed to glow with an inner light, casting a gentle glow on the faces of those who approached him. His hands, though aged and wrinkled with time, held a gentle strength that could soothe the most troubled of souls. His was the face of a man whose life had been dedicated to the service of others, a living embodiment of the faith that had been the cornerstone of Avarician society.

Mathias, though diminutive in stature, was a colossus of spirit. His mastery over mana, the very essence of the continent's lifeblood, was legendary. Yet, his compassion for the outcast had earned him the moniker of 'The Priest Who Spat God in the Face and Lived to Tell the Tale'.

Though once a bastion of hope amidst the encroaching shadows of the 100 Year War, Mathias had been cast out by the very faith he had served so faithfully. His compassion had made him an aberration, his power a weapon that could not be controlled by the clergy's dogmatic grasp.

As Castrol spoke, the room grew still. The crackling of the fireplace was swallowed by a silence so profound it was as if the very air had frozen solid. The villagers' eyes were locked on him, their faces a tableau of shock and disbelief. The only movement was the flicker of the candle flames, casting eerie shadows across the wooden planks of the barn walls.

Mathias Blanche had been more than just a priest; he had been a beacon of hope in a world of endless winter. His legend grew with every child he touched with his gentle, healing hands, each one now an adult with a story of his kindness. They spoke of a man who seemed to know their thoughts before they were fully formed, a man who could calm the most terrified of souls with but a single look. His mere presence was a balm to the weary, a warmth that seemed to emanate from his very core.

Yet, it was not merely his power that had brought him to the edge of excommunication. It was his unyielding empathy for the lost and the damned that had painted him a target for those who feared the power of the divine.

Now, as the years had marched forth, the unthinkable had come to pass. Mathias, the man who had once been the beacon of the faithful, knelt before Castrol Pennant, his hands trembling as he clutched at the garments of the village chief.

"Do not leave the square!" His once-mighty voice, now tremulous with fear, was a stark contrast to the image of the steadfast cleric they had known. "You cannot abandon Barley!"

Mathias could sense the village chief was contemplating following after his kin, and he sought to prevent such choice.

"Your place is here," he whispered urgently. "The people need you, Castrol."

The villagers watched, their breaths held in silent anticipation, as Castrol looked down at the priest. The man who had once been the embodiment of strength and hope now knelt before him, a broken shell of his former self. The sight was so jarring, so at odds with the Mathias they had known, that it was like a physical blow to each and every one of them.

Outside, the world seemed to hold its breath, as if the very fabric of reality had paused in its relentless march. The trees stood still, their branches heavy with snow that did not dare to fall. The wind held its voice, the whispers of the spirits frozen in mid-air. The animals, the very essence of the wilderness, had gone quiet, as though they too understood the gravity of the moment unfolding within the warm confines of the red-square.

It was as if the very gods had ceased their eternal dance, the heavens above stilling to a silent standstill.

As the silence grew oppressive, a shroud of uncertainty cloaked the room in its inky embrace. The only sounds that pierced the quiet were the ragged breaths of the priest and the erratic thump of Castrol's heart. Each beat echoing through the square like a funeral drum, mournful and ominous.

-To Be Continued-