The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall, narrow windows of the Pendelton Estate Infrastructure Office, casting long rectangular blocks of gold across the heavy oak floorboards. The room hummed with the quiet, relentless sound of administration. Six scribes sat at a long bench against the eastern wall, their quill pens scratching across heavy ledger paper as they recorded the day's commercial subscriptions.
Arthur stood at the central drafting table. He was not reviewing revenue. He was calculating the sheer, unyielding physics of dirt. His slate was covered in grading formulas, determining the exact angle of repose required to stabilize the steep, treacherous incline of Miller's Ridge.
The heavy iron handle of the office door turned. Zack stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him to muffle the ambient noise of the courtyard. He walked over to the drafting table, his clipboard tucked under his arm.
