Marcus Stone had the wood, the rope, and the plan pinned inside his skull, and still the first beam lay dead on the platform. He wanted a fortress up in the canopy, high in the branches of the old tree with the glowing fruit, a home where everyone he loved could sleep safe under his watch. But a beam that size took four hands to raise. Marcus had two. He'd sworn off partners years ago. Now his own rule had stalled him before he began. He crouched and gripped the beam. He heaved. It rose a foot, wobbled, and slammed back down. The platform shook. A splinter bit his palm. He cursed and sucked the blood. "You'll break your back before you break that habit," a woman said. Marcus turned. A slender woman stood at the rope bridge in a silk gown that didn't belong within a mile of splinters and sawdust. A blade sat strapped to her bare forearm, plain as a bracelet. Orla Ashveil. She hosted the grand parties over at the Rooftop Canopy Hall. Marcus knew her reputation. She smiled at guests and knew which ones wouldn't make it home. He didn't want her anywhere near his build. "I work alone," he said. "You don't work at all today." She stepped onto his platform without asking. "One man can't lift a fortress. You already know this. That's why you're bleeding." A puppy scrambled up the bridge behind her, gold markings ringing its eyes, coat soft as canopy moss. It bounded to Marcus and pressed against his boot. His jaw loosened for half a second. He set a hand on its head. Orla watched the crack in his shell and said nothing. "I don't need charity," Marcus said. "And I don't trust you." "Smart. Don't." She crouched, gown pooling in the sawdust, and gripped the far end of the beam. "But trust the beam. It won't rise on principle. Count." Marcus stared at her. The puppy barked once. He hated that she was right. He wrapped his hands around his end. "Three," he said. "Two. One." They pulled together. The beam lifted, swung upright, and dropped into its notch with a crack that rang through the branches. It held. The first post of his fortress stood. Marcus breathed hard. He'd raised nothing alone, and that stung. Orla brushed her palms and stood. "I'll send my people at dawn," she said. "Strong backs. They owe me." "Why," Marcus said. Not a question so much as a warning. "Because a man building a fortress will need doors that lock," she said, already walking. "And I like to know who holds the keys." She crossed the bridge and was gone. The puppy leaned on his leg. Marcus looked at the standing post, then at the empty bridge. His fortress had its first beam. It also had Orla Ashveil inside the gate, and he didn't know yet what that would cost him.

Orla's workers came at dawn, just as she promised. Six of them crossed the rope bridge with strong arms and quiet eyes. They watched everything. They counted his beams, his rope, the notches in his platform. Marcus stood by the standing post and hated it. He needed their hands to raise the next beam. But every hand belonged to Orla, and Orla wanted his keys. He couldn't let her people learn the bones of his fortress. "You," Marcus said to the nearest worker. "Stay off the north platform." The man only smiled and kept measuring. They didn't answer to Marcus. They answered to her. By noon the beams still lay flat. He wouldn't work with a crew he couldn't trust, and no one else would come. His fortress was frozen. He crossed to the gathering hall with the broad rooftop, hoping to hire day labor from the crowd. Inside, colored lights washed the bar counter. Bottles glowed. He found no free hands, only drinkers. Then he saw her near the pink and purple tables. A woman in a white gown, gold thread bright against her skin. On her chest, ink read nothing is promised. A small pink lizard sat on her shoulder, still and watchful, its eyes fixed on Marcus like it already knew him. "You look like a man who lost something," she said. Her voice was warm. "I'm Angel." "I lost my whole build," Marcus said. "I need hands I can trust. There aren't any." Angel tilted her head. The lizard shifted, tail curling. "People here owe me favors too. Not for leverage. Just love." She smiled. "I grew up with nothing promised and no home. I'd help a man make one." Marcus studied her. His shell told him to walk. But she asked for no keys. She named no debt. "Why would you work for a stranger?" "Because you're building a place for the people you love," she said. "I never had that. I'd like to see it stand." He brought her to the platform. Angel didn't watch his beams like a spy. She rolled up her gold sleeves and gripped the second beam's end. Orla's workers stopped and stared. Marcus counted. He and Angel pulled. The beam swung up and dropped into its notch with a crack. It held. Two posts stood now, raised by hands he chose. Marcus turned to Orla's crew. "Off my platform. All of you." This time they went. Word would reach Orla by dark, and she would come for an answer. But the fortress had a builder who wanted nothing from him but its standing. The pink lizard watched from Angel's shoulder as the sun dropped. Marcus wiped his palms and looked at the two posts. He had a partner now. He also had Orla's crew banished, her favor spurned, and her knife still somewhere in the dark.