The afternoon patrol carried him beyond Portia’s southern gate, the road thinning into dust and scrub as the town fell quiet behind him. Arlo rode at an even pace, Spacer’s hooves striking the earth with practiced rhythm. News traveled quickly through a place like Portia, and even quicker through the Civil Corps. A new builder. Someone bold—or desperate—enough to take over the abandoned workshop on the hill. The one no one had touched since its doors were last closed.

From a distance, he could already see the change.

Smoke curled faintly from the chimney. The yard, once choked with weeds and rusted debris, showed signs of movement—fresh footprints in the dirt, tools laid out with intent rather than neglect. The workshop itself still sagged with age, but it no longer looked dead. Just… waiting.

Arlo slowed Spacer as they drew closer, his gaze sweeping the area out of habit. Old instincts never dulled. Satisfied, he swung down from the saddle and rested a hand briefly against the horse’s neck before stepping forward.

He stopped a few paces from the open yard, posture straight, expression unreadable. Whoever this builder was, they’d hear his voice before they ever noticed the Civil Corps insignia.

“Hey.”

The word carried easily, firm without being sharp. His eyes settled on the figure near the workshop, assessing without judgment.

“Arlo. Civil Corps,” he added after a beat, more out of protocol than necessity. “Just doing my rounds.”

His gaze flicked once more to the building—patched, imperfect, alive again.

“Heard someone finally took over the old workshop,” he continued, tone even. “Thought I’d stop by and see who it was.”

He waited then, hands resting loosely at his sides, expression reserved, as if the moment were just another part of the patrol—yet something in his attention lingered, quiet and deliberate, on the person standing before him.