Half Truths

"Silence!" The word thundered from my father's chest, echoing off the high walls of the community hall like a clap of divine fury. Every head snapped toward Leader Hale, the man who had raised me with iron resolve and an unwavering sense of duty to our people. As his gaze swept across the gathered crowd, I felt the weight of his authority press upon us all.

"Look around you," he commanded, his voice now a low growl that rumbled through the tense air. "One among us has betrayed our trust, our sacred bond as a community. We have been violated, pierced by the dagger of treachery, and the Gods demand retribution." He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink into every heart and mind present.

"Let it be known," he continued, each word deliberate and heavy with consequence, "that the traitor will face the ultimate punishment. By the decree of the Gods and the laws of our people, they will be put to death." A collective shiver ran through the room, but my father's expression remained stone.

"Upon their last breath, they will be stripped of all dignity, hung in the city streets for all to witness—their naked body left as carrion, denied the sanctity of burial." His eyes blazed with righteous anger. "They will bare their shame even in death, a final offering to appease the wrath of the Gods."

The silence that followed was suffocating, filled with unspoken fears and suspicions. My father stood as the embodiment of our traditions, unyielding and resolute, prepared to root out the poison that threatened to corrupt the very soul of our community.


The Community Hall was a tangled web of shifting glances and whispered accusations. My father's decree hung over us like a storm cloud, casting shadows on once-familiar faces now twisted by distrust. Neighbors who'd shared meals and laughter turned on each other with eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Edwin helped repair the gate last week," someone hissed from the back. "Who's to say he didn't weaken it for them?"

"Silence your tongue, Martha!" Edwin spat back, his face red with indignation. "Your son was seen near the forest edge at dusk. Perhaps he met with outsiders!"

Lies and half-truths flitted through the air like vicious insects, stinging and relentless. Every denial seemed to sprout new seeds of doubt, every defense a possible cover for guilt. The tension swirled, a gathering storm with no sign of abatement.

It was then that my father, Leader Hale, raised his voice once more, silencing the rising cacophony. "Enough!" His command reverberated against the walls of the hall, the iron in his tone unmistakable. "Since none will step forward, since honesty eludes us in these dark times, I am left with no choice."

His gaze swept the room, and I could see the resolve etching deeper lines into his weathered face. "We are hereby on lockdown. No one leaves this hall. Each and every one of you will be subject to questioning and, if necessary, to methods that shall extract the truth however unwillingly it hides."

A chill ran down my spine as murmurs erupted, quiet but potent. Torture—such measures were unheard of within these walls, reserved only for the foulest enemies, not one's own kin and community.

"Let it be known," Father continued, unrelenting, "that if the traitor is among us, they will be revealed, even if I must tear the truth from their very soul."


The outcry was immediate, a wave of dissent rising from the very souls of my people. They had always known my father as stern, but just—never cruel. Whispers turned to shouts, a collective voice of fear and anger echoing off the stone walls.

"Leader Hale, you cannot mean this!" Old Mara, who'd seen more winters than the rest of us, stood with her hands pressed to her chest, her eyes wide with disbelief. "We are your people, not enemies to be tortured!"

"Silence!" My father's voice cut through the commotion like a knife. His authority was absolute, yet I could see the flicker of regret in his eyes—a man driven to the edge, prepared to leap into the abyss for the sake of justice.

"Jared," he barked, turning to the young Hunter beside him. The boy, barely a man, looked up, his face pale. "You know what must be done. Send word to the military soldiers. Tell them... tell them we have need of their... expertise."

Jared nodded slowly, the weight of the command sinking into his shoulders. These were the same soldiers who would not hesitate to extract confessions through means most foul; men who believed pain could strip away lies to reveal the raw truth beneath.

"Are we to be drowned like rats?" someone called out from the back. "Starved? Our children threatened?" The horror that such a fate could befall any one of us, let alone our own kin, was unthinkable.

"Enough!" Father roared again, his fist slamming down onto the podium. "This traitor has brought death upon us. If fear of the gods' wrath or love for our fallen does not move the guilty to confess, then fear of mortal retribution shall. We will root out this betrayal, even if it consumes us whole."

The hall fell into a stunned silence, the air thick with trepidation and unspoken dread. In the midst of it all, I felt a hollow ache in my chest. For the first time, I questioned whether the cost of truth might be too high.



"Father, wait!" My voice pierced the tense air of the community hall, every head turning in my direction. I could feel their eyes on me, some filled with hope, others with a weary sort of resignation. The murmurs quieted as I stepped forward, my resolve solidifying with each stride.

"Please," I continued, "let's not resort to such... extreme measures." The words felt heavy on my tongue, but necessary. "We're hunters, not torturers. This will only breed fear and contempt among our people."

Father's gaze was sharp as flint, his authority unchallenged until now. But there was something else there too – a flicker of uncertainty. He was a man of action, yes, but also one of pride. The thought of his community turning against him, against us, was anathema.

"Instead," I said, drawing a deep breath, "we should seek the aid of the werewolves."

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Even Father looked taken aback, his eyes narrowing.

"Twenty years ago, we lost family to a tragedy we blamed on the werewolves," I pressed on, undeterred by the widening of his eyes. "But if it was one of our own, someone who broke the treaty -" I let the implication hang in the air, heavy and potent.

"The werewolves have a keen sense of smell. We exhume the bodies of my brother and grandmother, call upon the werewolves to sniff them out. They'll be able to tell us who was the last person they came into contact with before they died."

Silence blanketed the room as everyone processed my words. It was an audacious plan, yet within that silence lay a seed of hope. I could see it taking root in the eyes of my people, desperate for a solution that didn't involve the suffering of innocents.

Father's lips were a tight line, his chest rising and falling with silent, measured breaths. The tension in his jaw spoke of inner conflict, his mind warring between the desire for swift justice and the potential backlash of his earlier decree.

"Are you suggesting we trust those beasts?" he finally asked, his voice begrudgingly curious.

"Better to trust a beast that hunts with honor than a man who betrays his own," I countered softly, meeting his stare head-on.