The forest had gone quiet again, but this time, it wasn't peace.
It was anticipation.
A week passed since Kerren and his men were exiled beyond the northern ridge. The villagers worked harder than ever—finishing the wall's first ring, reinforcing the kiln, digging new water channels. Yet beneath the progress, a tension pulsed through everyone like a heartbeat waiting to skip.
Adrian could feel it.
It was the silence before a storm he'd seen a hundred times—in cities before riots, in companies before collapse.
"Master Adrian," Lukas said one morning, carrying a pile of wet clay, "the outer trench is ready. But the guards say they saw strangers at the far trail last night."
Adrian looked up from his plans. "How many?"
"Three riders. They didn't enter the village. Just watched."
Adrian nodded slowly. "Then they'll be back. Strangers never look twice without a reason."
By midday, he was right.
The watchtower boy shouted from the hill, "Riders approaching! Banners—red with the crest of a tower!"
Torren grunted. "The same emblem from the men who came weeks ago."
Adrian stepped onto the new gate platform. The wall rose chest-high now, its surface drying in the sun—unfinished, but already a symbol of defiance.
Three mounted men halted at the edge of the open path. Their armor was mismatched but marked with the same crimson sigil—a stylized tower over crossed spears. The leader removed his helm, revealing a clean-shaven face hardened by command.