"Wyatt Redstone, Barley, X."

"Wyatt," Castrol murmured, "was a man of some repute. Known to many as a teacher of the Avarician customs, his lessons were not just confined to the dusty tomes of the church archives. He lived and breathed the faith, his every action a testament to its tenets." His voice grew stronger, the memories of the recent past still fresh in his mind. "He was not just a mere teacher, he was a steadfast believer in the avarician faith."

The group nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of his words. For them, it was common knowledge that Wyatt had long ago cast his lot with the more radical interpretations of the prophecy. His fiery sermons and his fervent devotion had earned him both admirers and detractors in equal measure. "His allegiance to the 'Kingg' does not come as a surprise," Castrol continued, "for his eyes had been set upon that path for quite some time."

But what haunted Castrol most was not the betrayal itself, but the realization of his own failure to see it coming. In his heart, he knew he had been blinded by the desire Wyatt had shown when he sided with Castrol's exiled group.

Wyatt had approached him as they left the square, his eyes gleaming with what Castrol had mistaken for hope and camaraderie. "Let us join you," he had said, his voice thick with the promise of unity. "We can stand stronger together."

But it was not unity that burned in Wyatt's heart; it was the cold, calculated ambition to serve his new god, Tobias Kingg. As they journeyed to the barley reserves, he had subtly whispered doubt into the ears of Castrol's followers, planting the seeds of dissent with every step they took in the crunching snow. His words, had become the serpent's hiss that tempted the faithful into questioning their path.

He waited, biding his time like a predator stalking its prey, for the moment when their trust in Castrol was at its most fragile. And as the group grew weary and their spirits flagged, he struck, his words a dagger in the dark, aimed at the very heart of their resolve. "Is this truly the way of Nandi, to abandon our village and cower in the shadows?" he asked, feigning confusion. "Should we not stand with the chosen one, the 'Kingg', elder Millie, and embrace the Second Birth?"

The whispers grew louder, echoing in the confined space of the barley reserves, a symphony of doubt and despair. Castrol felt the burden of their fear, the weight of their uncertainty pressing down on his shoulders like the heavy snow that blanketed the land outside. "Our resources are dwindling," Wyatt pointed out, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the fire, "We cannot survive here indefinitely. The prophecy speaks of a great joining, of strength in numbers. Should we not seek out the 'Kingg' and offer him our support?"

The survivors, desperate for any semblance of hope in the face of the relentless cold and the prophecy's grim embrace, ate up his sweet nothings like starving men at a feast. They saw in his words a promise of salvation, a beacon in the dark. And so, one by one, they began to sway, their already little faith in Castrol's leadership wavering like a candle in the wind.

But it was when Wyatt mentioned Millie's name that the tide truly began to turn. "I have had a vision," he proclaimed, his eyes alight with a feverish conviction, "A vision of the elder Millie and Tobias, standing side by side, unifying the villagers under the banner of the 'Kingg'. If we do not offer our support, we may miss the opportunity to bring peace and harmony to the whole of Avaricia."

The room grew still, the only sound the steady drip of melting snow from their dampened clothes. Castrol felt his blood boil, his fists clenching tightly. The mention of Millie, his mother, and her supposed union with the monster that had usurped the village, was too much to bear.

With a roar fueled by anger and fear, he lunged at Wyatt, the flurry of his movements causing the fire to spit and crackle.

But Wyatt, the sly opportunist, had anticipated Castrol's reaction. He had hoped to provoke a display of rage that would discredit Castrol in the eyes of his followers. As Castrol's fists clenched and he prepared to pound on the blob of a man, the room seemed to hold its collective breath. But before he could act on his fury, the cunning man allowed himself to be caught in Castrol's grasp, his sneer belying the fear that must have lurked beneath the surface. "Is this how you lead, Castrol?" he jeered, his smile widening, "With fists and rage?"

"Is this the real you?" Wyatt spat, his eyes gleaming with spite. "A man who uses brute force with a heart consumed by anger?" The words struck a nerve, and Castrol felt the room's temperature drop as the survivors shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flickering between the two men. The mention of his family, the mere suggestion that they could be alive under the tyranny of 'Kingg', Tobias Mitchell, had thrown him off balance, and he knew that any action taken in haste would only serve to fuel the flames of doubt that were already spreading through the barley reserves.

With a tremendous effort, Castrol forced his rage down, his grip on Wyatt loosening slightly. The cunning man took this as an opportunity to twist the narrative further. "See," he called out to the others, "He cannot control his temper. How can we trust such a man to lead us through the storm?" The room was filled with murmurs of agreement, the doubt in Castrol's eyes reflected back at him by those who had once been his unwavering supporters.

Wyatt's sly smile grew wider as he continued to press his advantage. "If Castrol truly has your best interests at heart," he said, his voice dripping with false concern, "then he would not stand in the way of you reuniting with your loved ones, with those who still live under the protection of the 'Kingg'."

"Come, let us not waste any more time and join the 'Kingg' in the warmth of the village," Wyatt said with feigned concern, his eyes gleaming as he watched Castrol's anger boil over. "I guarantee you, that the elder Millie will be waiting for us there with him."

Castrol's grip tightened on the traitor's robes, the fabric straining in his fists. The mention of his mother's name was a knife twisting in his chest, a reminder of the family he had lost. But he knew that succumbing to his rage would only serve to divide his people further. He had to be the leader they needed, not the monster they feared. With a roar that was more of frustration than fury, he shoved Wyatt away.

"You are right," Castrol said through gritted teeth, "We should not let anger dictate our actions. You are free to leave, Wyatt. Return to the 'Kingg' and tell him that we have chosen our own path." His voice was a low growl, a beast held at bay by the thinnest of chains. "But know this," he continued, his eyes burning into the man's soul, "You leave as a traitor, and you will be treated as one should you ever return."

Wyatt's smile never wavered as he looked around the room, his eyes lingering on the faces of the villagers. "I am not the one who has turned his back on the true faith," he said, his voice filled with a crazed conviction. "The prophecy calls for a great joining, not a fractured band hiding in the cold. You will all see, in time, that the 'Kingg' offers the only true path to salvation."

With that, he turned on his heel, the handful of villagers who had been swayed by his mad ramblings following him like sheep to the slaughter. Castrol watched them go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that they were walking into a trap. But he knew that he could not force them to stay, that their choices were their own to make.

He would not be endangering the lives of those who chose to stay with him by pursuing the turncoats. Instead, Castrol focused on the survivors who remained.

That is how a third faction was formed. Wyatt's faction, that had barely left the barley reserves when the first howls pierced the quiet night. Arctic wolves, drawn by the scent of fear and weakness, had found their way to the small band of defectors. Prompting Arteus into action to save the pathetic bunch...

...As Castrol's tale concluded, a palpable tension filled the barn, the air thick with accusation and recrimination. The murmurs of dissent grew louder, until Elder Millie's furious voice silenced the assembly.

"Silence!" she bellowed. "Wyatt, you dare use my name to manipulate the good people of Barley?"

The room grew still, the flames of the fire seemingly retreating into the shadows as the survivors held their breath, waiting for Wyatt's response.

But no response came, and it was Millie who broke the silence once more.

She sighed heavily, her body frail but her spirit indomitable, "This bickering does us no good," she said, her voice carrying a weight that belied her age, "I am tired of listening to the 'he said, she said' that fills this place. We are here now, and we must focus on what lies ahead, not what has passed."

The room remained silent, the echo of her words lingering in the stillness. Then, with the authority of one who had seen more than her fair share of battles, both physical and of the soul, she spoke again.

"I have only one question for all of you," Millie's voice was firm, "Who among you, still harbours the desire to leave this place?"

"Speak now," Millie's voice was firm yet gentle, as her eyes searched the faces of the villagers, finding uncertainty and fear.

Potentially, drawing the curtain on the final act of the Residents, Barley.

-To Be Continued-