The warmth from the previous night lingered like a pleasant dream, but the System's warning was a cold, clear reality in Alistair's mind. A wolf pack. Three days.
He found his father by the woodpile, the steady thunk of the axe a familiar morning rhythm.
"Father," Alistair began, choosing his words carefully. "The trappers from the north stream came by the village yesterday. They said they saw a large wolf pack moving down from the Blackridge Peaks."
Kaelen paused mid-swing, his brow furrowing. "A large pack? That's ill news. The old palisade won't stop a determined group." He looked towards the forest, his eyes calculating. "We'll need to reinforce the fence, especially near the goat pen."
This was his opening. "Reinforcing it with wood will take time," Alistair said. "What if we built a low wall? Of stone and earth. It would be stronger. Permanent."
His father gave him a long, appraising look. "A wall, son? That's a stonemason's work. It takes skill and time we don't have."
"I've been... thinking about it," Alistair said, tapping the side of his head where Leo's knowledge resided. "A simple design. We can use the smaller stones from the creek bed, mix mud and clay as a binder. It wouldn't need to be high, just a sturdy barrier to break their charge and make them think twice."
He saw the doubt in his father's eyes, but beneath it, a flicker of interest. Alistair was not the daydreaming boy he once was; the chair and his new way with the axe had proven that.
"Alright," Kaelen finally grunted. "We'll try it. On the southern side, as a test. But this is back-breaking labor, Alistair. Don't expect miracles."
"It's not about miracles," Alistair replied, a smile touching his lips. "It's about good, honest work."
The work was exactly as his father promised—back-breaking. They started by the creek, hauling up smooth, heavy stones. Bren, buzzing with excitement at being included in a "real knight's fortification," was tasked with gathering the best clay from the bank, a job he undertook with the solemnity of a royal quest.
Alistair directed the operation, his engineer's mind coming to the fore. "We need a shallow trench first, Father, to give it a foundation. It keeps the wall from shifting."
Kaelen dug, his powerful muscles making light work of the soil. "A foundation, eh? Smart."
They worked in tandem, a quiet understanding growing between them. Alistair would place the stones, finding the perfect fit for each one, his earth magic subtly guiding his hands to feel the most stable positions. He didn't lift the stones with magic—that was still beyond him—but he used it as a fine-tuning tool, an instinct for stability. Kaelen would then pack the clay and mud mixture around them, his practical experience complementing Alistair's theoretical knowledge.
Bren ran back and forth, a small, muddy whirlwind, delivering "provisions" of water and handfuls of particularly good clay. For a few hours, the looming threat faded, replaced by the simple, satisfying rhythm of creation.
By midday, a low, crooked, but undeniably sturdy section of wall, about four feet long and two feet high, stood where there had been only grass. They stood back, chests heaving, covered in dirt and sweat.
Kaelen wiped his brow, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. "It's... solid," he admitted, knocking on a stone with his knuckle. "Ugly as a troll's breakfast, but solid. We might just keep the goats safe after all."
The sight of the three of them—father and sons, filthy and triumphant—must have been a strange one, because when Lyra called them for the midday meal, she stopped and stared.
"By the ancestors," she said, her hands on her hips. "You've actually built something." She walked over, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She ran a hand over the rough stone. "It's actually good." Then, her gaze fell on Alistair. "You know, if you can build something this useful out of mud and rocks, it makes me think about that chair again."
They sat down to eat a simple stew, the comfort of the new rocking chair evident as Elara gently swayed while mending a tunic.
"Mother," Lyra began, her tone taking on a calculating edge Alistair recognized. She was the one who managed the family's meager sales of pelts and herbs. "How many women in the village do you think would want a chair like that? One that doesn't creak and actually soothes an aching back instead of causing one?"
Elara looked up, surprised. "Oh, many, I'd wager. Old Man Hemmel's wife, for certain. Saira, the baker, is always on her feet..."
Lyra turned her gaze to Alistair, a spark of entrepreneurial fire in her eyes. "You made this in a day. If we could make a few more, we could sell them at the market in the next town. For a proper price. Not just a few coppers."
The idea hung in the air, tangible and bright. It wasn't just about defense anymore. It was about prosperity.
Alistair felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the stew. This was it. This was the true power of his second chance. He wasn't just protecting them from wolves; he was helping them build a better life, and they were building it with him.
As the family discussed the potential of the "Ironwood Chair," Alistair's System quietly updated.
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[Quest: 'The Hearth's Warmth' - Objective 2 Updated!] [Synchronization Progress: Swordsmanship (Farmer's Sway) - 12%. Mana Control (Earth Sense) - 18%.] [New Familial Quest Generated: 'The Seed of Commerce'] - Objective: Craft and successfully sell 3 'Comfort Chairs'. - Reward: [Basic Woodworking Tools], 200 Sovereign Points.
The path was clear. Build the wall. Master his skills. Build a future. One stone, one chair, at a time.