The next day, he watched carefully. Small signs betrayed guilt—eyes that avoided his gaze, hands that twitched when he spoke of rebuilding. But two men stood out:
Darik, a farmer whose hut lay near the river. He had long opposed the wall, calling it "a curse on the gods." His feet bore cuts that matched the trail's shape.
Kerren, one of the hunters. He'd been vocal about fearing retaliation from the lords. His hut was closest to where the prints ended.
Adrian's suspicion hardened.
That night, he laid a trap. Lukas sprinkled ash near the kiln, fine enough to catch prints. Torren and Elara took watch with him in silence, spears ready.
Hours passed. The night was still. Then—a rustle. A shadow moved near the kiln.
Adrian's hand shot up, signaling silence. He waited until the figure crept closer, torchlight catching their outline.
It was Darik.
The farmer knelt, clutching a rock, and raised it toward the kiln wall.
Adrian stepped forward. "Stop."
The man froze. His eyes went wide as the torchlight revealed Adrian's cold stare.
In an instant, Torren seized him, wrenching the rock from his hand. The villagers awoke to shouting and gathered in the square.
"Traitor!" someone cried.
Darik thrashed. "You don't understand! The wall will bring the lords! They'll slaughter us all!"
Elara's voice cut sharp as steel. "And your answer is to doom us sooner?"
Murmurs of anger rose from the crowd. Some demanded punishment. Others whispered fearfully that Darik was right.