The chill October air bit at Lucian’s ears as he navigated the uneven cobblestones of New Republic. He tugged his worn tweed coat tighter around himself, a frown creasing his brow as he scanned the faces passing him by. A young girl skipped ahead, her laughter echoing off the faded brick facades, while a gruff-looking man hurried past, muttering to himself about late deliveries and incompetent apprentices. Lucian hadn’t intended on ending up here. He’d left his quiet village in the north, driven by a restless spirit and a desire for something more. He carried with him a battered toolbox filled with the tools of his trade – a carpenter's son through and through, he believed in honest work and the sturdy beauty of well-crafted wood. But Pilegron was a labyrinthine city, its streets teeming with ambition and opportunity, yet somehow cold and impersonal. Lucian found himself adrift, his skills undervalued in a market saturated with artisans vying for scraps. He’d spent weeks sleeping in cramped lodgings, surviving on meagre rations and the kindness of strangers who saw the weariness etched into his face. Then, he stumbled upon New Republic. A sense of familiarity washed over him as he walked past faded grandeur – the chipped stonework of Congress Gate, the crumbling facades that whispered tales of a bygone era. Here, amidst the bustle of everyday life and the faint scent of woodsmoke from nearby hearths, Lucian felt a flicker of hope. He’d heard whispers of revitalization efforts, of investors eager to breathe new life into this neglected corner of the city. Perhaps, he thought, there was still a place for him here – a chance to use his calloused hands and keen eye to build something lasting, something that would contribute to the city's evolving tapestry. He set down his toolbox on a cobblestone, its worn surface reflecting the pale afternoon light. Lucian looked up at the weathered facade of a building across the street, its windowpanes clouded with age. A faint smile touched his lips. There was work to be done here, stories to be written in wood and stone. He would find his place, he knew it.