Elara glanced toward the chief's hut, her voice lowering. "Not everyone wants this wall, Adrian. The chief whispers that your ambition will bring the lords down on us."
Adrian's jaw tightened. He wasn't surprised. He had seen men like the chief before—men who feared change more than death.
"Let him whisper," Adrian muttered. "While he does, we'll build. And when the wall rises, even he won't be able to deny what we've done."
But deep inside, he knew Elara was right. A wall could keep raiders out. It couldn't keep betrayal from within.
The kiln fire had burned strong all day. Villagers hauled bricks in steady lines, sweat dripping but spirits rising. For the first time in generations, they worked with purpose, not just survival.
By dusk, over two hundred bricks were stacked neatly, ready for the wall's foundation. Adrian stood before the pile, dirt streaked across his arms, exhaustion tugging at his body. But beneath it all, he felt pride.
We're getting there. One brick at a time.
That night, the village slept under a rare blanket of calm. Crickets sang, the wind rustled the leaves, and the stars burned bright.
But calm never lasted.
Adrian woke to shouting. Torches flared outside his hut. He grabbed a spear—one of the few sharpened weapons they'd scavenged—and rushed toward the kiln.
The smell hit him first. Not the comforting smoke of fired clay, but acrid stench—like ash and ruin.
Then he saw it.
The kiln lay cracked open, its walls smashed with stones. Bricks that had taken days of labor lay shattered in the dirt. The fire pit had been deliberately doused with river water, leaving only a hiss of dying embers.