The sun rose over the river in a haze of orange and gold.
Adrian stood at the edge of the trench, surveying the ground where the first section of the wall would rise. Behind him, villagers waited—men, women, even children, all clutching shovels or baskets of clay.
The kiln burned again, stronger and hotter than before. Torren had reforged its cracked edges with black iron bands, muttering, "Let's see them try to break it now."
Darik worked nearby under the watch of two guards, his face set in grim silence. Each brick he molded was a reminder of his punishment.
Adrian didn't gloat. He only nodded to the guards. "Keep him working. We all answer for what we build—or what we destroy."
Then, raising his voice to the crowd, he said, "Today, we start the first wall section. Every brick, every line of clay—it's the foundation of our future. When this stands, no raider or lord will see a weak village again. They'll see a fortress."
A murmur of pride swept through the people.
Elara stepped forward, sleeves rolled up, eyes determined. "Then let's make sure it stands taller than their pride."
The work began.
Bricks were laid in lines across the trench's edge. Adrian directed the workers carefully, teaching them to stagger each layer for strength, to seal gaps with thick mortar. Lukas followed closely, sketching every detail, his hands smudged with charcoal.
By midday, the wall rose waist-high—rough, imperfect, but solid.
Torren hammered a crude iron gate hinge into shape nearby, while Elara organized the women hauling water and clay. Even the children sang as they passed buckets.