Silas Thornwood dropped his hammer in the dirt outside the saloon doors. The roof sagged. The bar inside was split clean through. He wanted this place to be the finest watering hole in the territory, but one man could not outrun the rot. He dragged a wagon up close to the porch. It was stacked with salvaged lumber, clay roof tiles, and a jumble of tools he had scraped together over months. The pile looked smaller in daylight than it had felt to gather. He knew what he needed. Hands. More than his own. So he hauled a tall wooden board to the roadside and nailed up a fresh notice. Silas is looking for skilled laborers. He stepped back, wiped his palms, and waited. Hours passed. The sun climbed and fell. No one stopped. A merchant glanced and kept walking. A boy read the sign and ran off laughing. Then boots crossed the dirt. A red-haired woman in worn armor stopped at his wagon. She looked at the lumber, then at him. "You the one hiring?" she asked. Silas nodded. She said, "I don't swing a hammer for free. But I'm tracking someone through this town. Room and meals, and I'll lift what you can't." Silas took her hand and shook it. Keira Ashborne did not smile. She picked up a beam and carried it to the porch like it weighed nothing. The saloon had its first worker. And Silas, without knowing it yet, had taken on someone else's hunt.