The morning after the outsiders' visit, the village woke to unease.
Every whispered conversation circled back to the same question: What if they return?
Adrian listened as he walked through the square. Fear was natural. But fear could be shaped—just like clay into brick.
He gathered the villagers before the kiln. Lukas stood at his side, clutching his sketches. Elara held her son close, her eyes steady. Torren wiped soot from his brow, arms folded. Even the chief was there, leaning on his cane, lips pursed.
Adrian raised his voice. "Yesterday proved something. We can't hide forever. If raiders or outsiders come again, we need more than huts. More than bravery. We need walls."
A ripple of gasps. Someone muttered, "Walls? Like the old kingdoms?"
Adrian nodded. "Yes. A ring of stone and brick around the village. A shield that won't burn or fall."
Excitement stirred—but so did doubt.
One of the elders shook her head. "We barely have food to last the winter. You'd waste hands and time on a dream?"
Another man spat. "A wall will only provoke outsiders! They'll see strength and try harder to break us."
The murmurs grew louder. Adrian felt the tide shifting against him.
Then Elara's voice cut through: "And if we build nothing, they'll break us with ease." She looked around, eyes fierce. "How many of you lost family to raiders? How many buried children? The Builder is right. We need protection, not excuses."