The barn, once a bastion of chaotic whispers, had transformed into a sanctuary of absolute quietude. The kind of silence that was as delicate as a feather, floating in the air, untouched by the tumult of the world outside. The same silence that often accompanied the most profound moments of life, the kind that whispered of fate and destiny.

And then, as if in response to an unheard melody, Arteus murmured, "Hey..." His voice was like the soft coo of a mourning dove, a sound so unexpected that it seemed to echo through the very essence of their souls. The villagers stared at him, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope.

"I've lost everything today," he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his revelation, as his eyes searched the faces of the villagers, a silent plea for understanding reflected in their depths.

"The very reason for my breath," Arteus murmured, his voice a whisper in the cathedral of silence, "has been torn from me." The words hung in the air, each one a frozen tear that captured the essence of his anguish. The warmth that had once filled his heart, the warmth of purpose and belonging, had been replaced by the bitter chill of solitude.

He raised his eyes to meet theirs, and in that moment, he saw not the faces of his neighbors and friends, but the shadows of doubt and fear that had shaped their hearts for so long. "Do I hold you all accountable?" he asked, his voice resonating through the barn, a question that was as much for himself as it was for them. "You, who had cast aside my mother and me, who whispered of our heritage behind closed doors and pointed fingers?"

"You're darn right I do," Arteus' voice grew stronger, a declaration that resonated with a power that seemed to shake the very foundations of the barn. "I've spent this entire day, from dawn to dusk, fighting for the very people who spat on the name of my mother and me!" He paused, the flames of the fire casting a stark contrast against his shadowed features, highlighting the grief etched into every line of his face.

"So, why?" Arteus whispered to himself, his breath a silent prayer in the frigid air.

His eyes searched the horizon, the line where the snow-covered earth met the ashen sky, as if seeking an answer that lay somewhere in the frozen vastness of the landscape.

Arteus took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of fear and anticipation.

"I fight for you," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil that raged within, "not because you deserve it, not because you've ever given me cause to care for your plight." His words were like drops of ice in the warmth of the fire-lit barn, each one a stark reminder of the chasm that had once existed between them. "But," he continued, his gaze never wavering, "I do so because it is the right thing to do. Because my mother, would not approve of me standing idly by as people she considered 'her people' suffered."

With a voice that quivered with a blend of anger and sorrow, he spoke her name, "Hanna." It was a mere utterance, yet it bore the weight of her suffering.

"You," Arteus said, his voice a mix of accusation and pain as he pointed at the villagers, "You are all responsible for her never knowing true happiness. For her back always being bent with the weight of her herbs and potions, for her hands forever stained with the dirt of the earth because you denied us residency in the very place she sought refuge." His words were like a cold wind that sliced through the barn, cutting to the bone and leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Yet, despite the bitterness that coated his tongue, there was an undeniable thread of emotion that wove through his speech, a testament to the love he bore for Hanna. "I hate you all," he admitted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the barn. "I hate the whispers that followed us like shadows, the looks of disdain that greeted us every day. I hate that she had to live her life as an outcast because of your fears and superstitions!"

The words hung in the air, a declaration of anger and pain that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of their souls. The villagers stared at him, their faces a canvas of guilt and regret. For the first time since his return, Arteus allowed them to see the depth of his anger, the rage that had been festering within him like an open wound.

"But," he added, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of an avalanche, "I hate the gods more."

The words hung in the air like a curse, and the villagers gasped collectively. To speak ill of the gods was blasphemy, a transgression that could bring their wrath down upon them all. The air in the barn grew colder, the shadows deeper, as if the very deities themselves had taken offense to his words. Yet, none dared to interrupt, for they had witnessed the depth of his anguish and the fierce intensity of his conviction.

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Arteus took a step forward, the snow crunching under his boots, each step a deliberate act of defiance against the fate that had been laid before him. "My mother," he began, his voice a gentle caress in the harshness of the moment, "never bore any ill will to the people of Barley."

He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air like a fragile web of hope amidst the shadows of their collective guilt. "Even after she was cast out by her own kin, she saw this village as a chance for redemption," he continued, his eyes never leaving the villagers, who stared back at him with a mix of fear and regret. "Her heart was filled with love for you all, a love that was as vast and unyielding as the mountains that cradle our lands."

"But I," he announced, his tone altering, "I feel differently." The words fell from his lips with the gravity of fate.

Arteus' eyes flashed with a rage so profound it seemed to set the very air alight with a blue flame, a rage that was not just for the villagers' ignorance and cruelty but for the gods who had orchestrated this macabre dance of destiny. "I hate you all," he spat, "but I hate the Gods more." His fists clenched, knuckles white with the pressure, as he raised his face to the heavens.

"Because Hanna, hated the Gods even more than i do." Arteus' voice was a knell that rang through the barn, his words a declaration of war against the very heavens. "And it is because of that hate, that I stand before you, willing to fight for your lives." He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, his eyes a maelstrom of anger and sorrow. "But make no mistake," he growled, "I do not do it for you. I do it for her. For the love she had for you, for the hope she had for this village, for the future she believed you all deserve despite your spitefulness."

The villagers exchanged glances, the gravity of his words sinking in like a heavy stone thrown into a still pond. They knew of Hanna's love, of her tireless dedication to healing and helping, despite their scorn. They had seen her kindness, felt it, but had chosen to turn away, hiding behind their fears and prejudices.

"All-Sky," Arteus spat the name with the venom of one who had been betrayed by a lover, "has seen fit to decree that we are not worthy, that we are to be tested and judged." His eyes narrowed, the flame in his gaze burning brighter. "But I choose to fight that decree," he announced, his voice a thunderous crescendo that seemed to shake the very walls of the barn. "I will not stand by and watch as the innocent are slaughtered in the name of a prophecy that none of us truly understands!"

The strength that had carried him through the storm, the power that had allowed him to fight the wolves and yetis, the very essence of his being that had been tempered by the trials of his journey—it surged through him now, a river of unyielding force that seemed to make him grow in stature before their very eyes. "You," he pointed at the villagers, his finger a sword of accusation, "you can choose to stand with me, or you can cower in the shadows. But know this: I will fight for what's right, with every ounce of strength I possess."

The villagers stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down upon them like a heavy cloak. They had seen the prophecy unfold before their very eyes, had watched as their world was torn apart by the greed of the gods they had once revered. And now, in the heart of their darkest hour, a beacon of hope had emerged from the shadows, a warrior forged by the very gods he now sought to defy.

"I will leave this village," Arteus announced, his voice echoing in the silent barn, "and I will journey to the very heart of Avaricia. I will challenge the gods themselves, and I will purge this land of their greed." His eyes gleamed with a fierce determination that was as unyielding as the iron in his blood. "No longer will anyone have to live in fear," he declared, his voice a battle cry that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the earth.

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the villagers, each one frozen in place by the sheer power of his words. "But," he added, his tone softer but no less firm, "I will not force you to come with me. You are free to choose your own fate."

"I will leave at first light," Arteus announced, his eyes never leaving theirs. "You can choose to come with me," His words were like a battle cry in the stillness of the night, a call to arms that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of their being. "Your presence, or lack of it, will be a constant reminder of what i stand to lose, what i fight for."

"Or not," he added with an air of indifference, his back turned to the assembly. "Either way i plan to pass judgment on the same gods that view us unworthy."

As he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, the door of the barn creaking on its hinges like the bones of the dead, the name "Wyatt" slipped from his lips.

"Ye-yes," Wyatt stuttered, his voice a brittle thread of sound in the vast silence of the barn.

"Heh," Arteus scoffed, his voice a low rumble. "Do you know which direction Tobias is headed?"

Wyatt nodded, his eyes flickering uneasily. "The Holy City of Sovereign," he murmured, his voice shaking with each syllable.

"Good," Arteus said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped out into the frigid night. "Then that's where I'll start."

The villagers watched in silence as he disappeared into the swirling snow, the door slamming shut behind him. His words echoed in the barn like the toll of a funeral bell, leaving a trail of doubt and fear in their hearts. Would he truly challenge the gods? Could a mere mortal hope to stand against the divine?

Millie's thoughts raced as she stared into the flickering embers of the fire. Her eyes searched the shadows, as if trying to glean some insight into Arteus's intentions. "What is he planning?" she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible above the crackling fire.

Lilly, seated beside her, leaned in, her eyes filled with a mix of admiration and concern. "Arteus," she whispered his name like a prayer, her breath a warm caress against the chilling silence...

-Elsewhere-

[Under-Realm]

In the shadowy recesses of the Under-realm, where the whispers of fate cavorted among the shadows, an enigmatic figure took form. The very air grew taut with anticipation as a disembodied voice resonated through the vast emptiness.

"Speak, mortal," it intoned, a command that reverberated through the very fabric of existence.

-To Be Continued-