Lukas raised his charcoal-smeared hand. "I'll help! I'll make a hundred bricks if I have to!"
Torren slammed a fist into his palm. "With a wall, I can forge gates. A stronghold, not just a village."
The crowd wavered. Fear against hope. Doubt against possibility.
Adrian stepped forward, voice firm. "I'm not asking for faith. I'm asking for work. A wall isn't built in a day. It's built one brick at a time. Start small, start steady, and soon you'll see it rise."
For a long moment, silence. Then, slowly, heads began to nod.
The decision was made.
Adrian began at the edge of the fields. He and Lukas measured the ground with lengths of rope, marking a circle wide enough to encompass the village and leave space for growth. Villagers followed curiously as he explained trench lines, drainage, and foundations.
When the first ditch was dug, Adrian placed his hand on the dirt. "Here," he said, "is where the wall will stand."
The villagers cheered, timid at first, then louder.
That night, as torches burned around the half-dug trench, Adrian sat by the fire with his small circle—Lukas, Elara, Torren.
Elara spoke first. "The people believe in you. More every day."
Adrian stared into the flames. Believe in me, or cling to me like drowning men to driftwood?
He didn't voice the thought. Instead, he said, "Belief won't matter if we don't have enough clay, stone, or food to keep working."
Torren grunted. "Then we'll find more. Forest's got stone in its belly. River's got clay. And food… food we can trade for."