The rhythmic chink-chink of Rex's chisel had become the metronome of his days. A callus had hardened over the blister on his palm, a small, proud badge of labor. He was working on a lower section of the curtain wall near the main gate, his world reduced to the satisfying process of clearing decay and replacing it with strength.
The sound of another engine, this one a groaning diesel, pulled him from his focus. He looked up to see a large, unmarked truck lurching to a halt just outside the gate. A man in a nondescript grey uniform jumped out from the driver's seat, a digital clipboard in hand.
"Monsieur Rex?" the man called out, his voice echoing slightly in the stone gateway.
Rex set down his tools and walked over, wiping the stone dust from his hands. "That's me."
"Delivery from 'Horizon Logistics'," the man said, his tone bored, bureaucratic. "I need you to sign." He held out the clipboard.
Rex's heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. Horizon Logistics. The name was as bland as the truck, a deliberately forgettable front for the specialized procurement and shipping company he had hired. This was the first shipment. The real one.
He scrawled his signature on the screen, his hand steady. "Where do you want it?" the driver asked, looking past Rex at the rough track and the imposing gate with a skeptical expression.
"The gatekeeper's lodge. Just inside," Rex instructed, his voice calm, belying the sudden surge of adrenaline. This was the moment the abstract plans in his head began to manifest in physical form.
The driver nodded and gestured to his companion in the passenger seat. The back of the truck hissed open, revealing stacks of unmarked, heavy-duty plastic crates. The two men began unloading them onto a pallet jack, their movements efficient and disinterested. To them, it was just another job. They had no idea they were delivering the seeds of a potential future.
Rex supervised, directing them to stack the crates neatly against the sturdiest wall of the lodge. Each crate was sealed, with only a small, coded inventory sticker on the side. He knew what the codes meant. MED-1: Advanced trauma kits, sutures, antibiotics. NUTR-3: Bulk grains—rice, wheat, beans—vacuum-sealed in Mylar bags inside food-grade buckets. WTR-2: High-capacity water filters and purification tablets.
The crates were heavy. The grunts of the delivery men and the scrape of the pallet jack were the only sounds. Jean Delahaye had paused his work on the bell tower, watching the proceedings with a quiet, curious gaze. He said nothing, but Rex could feel the unasked questions.
It took nearly an hour to unload. The small lodge was now filled nearly to the ceiling with a wall of grey plastic, a silent, formidable stockpile. Rex signed the final release form, and the driver tipped his cap before climbing back into the truck. The diesel engine roared to life, and the vehicle rumbled away, leaving behind a profound silence that felt heavier than before.
Rex stood in the doorway of the lodge, looking at the stacks. This was it. The first tangible commitment to his deepest, most private fear. This wasn't for a festival. This was for survival.
A presence at his shoulder made him turn. Jean had approached, his grizzled features unreadable. He looked past Rex at the crates, his eyes lingering on the coded labels.
"Supplies for your festival?" Jean asked, his tone neutral.
"Something like that," Rex replied, his voice equally level. "It's a remote site. I need to be self-sufficient. Medical supplies. Food for volunteers. That sort of thing."
Jean was silent for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over the sheer volume of the shipment. It was far more than a festival would require. He then looked at Rex, really looked at him—seeing past the dirt and the calluses to the intense, calculating purpose in the young man's eyes.
He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "A man who thinks ahead is a wise man," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The world... it has surprises." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. In his long life, Jean had seen enough to know that stability was an illusion.
He clapped a heavy, stone-rough hand on Rex's shoulder, a gesture of surprising solidarity. "You are building more than a castle, I think. But the walls are a good start. A very good start."
With that, he turned and walked back towards the bell tower, leaving Rex alone with his thoughts and his secret fortress of supplies.
Rex closed the heavy wooden door of the lodge and slid a new, heavy-duty steel bolt he had installed himself. The sound of it slamming home was final, definitive.
The visible work on the stones was the show, the public face of his project. But this, the hidden cache growing in the heart of his domain, was the true foundation. It was the unspoken promise he was making to himself and to this place. Whatever came, Avalon would endure.