The departure of the bureaucrats left a residue of tension in the air. The incident was a stark reminder that his sanctuary was not yet truly his own. Rex channeled the frustration into physical labor, attacking a stubborn section of the curtain wall with renewed intensity. The rhythmic strike of his hammer was a cathartic release.
It was during this focused labor that a new sound began to weave itself into the tapestry of Avalon's rebirth. It started as a tentative, metallic tap-tap-tap, then grew into a confident, rhythmic cling-clang. It was the sound of a hammer on an anvil, a heartbeat of industry he hadn't yet commissioned.
Curious, Rex set down his tools and followed the sound. It led him to the far side of the village square, to a building he had only briefly explored—the old blacksmith's forge. The structure was surprisingly intact, its roof still mostly sound, its interior dominated by a massive, stone-built hearth and a great, horned anvil that sat on a solid oak block, rooted deep into the earth.
And there was Kaelen. She had dragged one of the crates from the armory into the forge. It was open, revealing bundles of raw steel stock—lengths of square and round bar. She had one of the lengths in the heart of a small, propane-powered forge she must have brought herself, the flames roaring as they brought the metal to a brilliant, molten orange.
Her red hair was tied back in a messy bun, her face smudged with soot and glowing with heat and concentration. She wore a heavy leather apron and gloves that seemed too large for her, but her movements were anything but clumsy. With a pair of long tongs, she pulled the glowing steel from the fire and laid it on the anvil.
Then she began to work.
Her hammer fell in a precise, practiced cadence. Cling. Turn. Clang. Turn. She was not just beating the metal; she was dancing with it, shaping it with a series of sharp, accurate blows. Sparks flew in brilliant, short-lived arcs around her like a swarm of angry fireflies. She was wholly absorbed, her entire being focused on the transformation happening under her hammer.
Rex watched, mesmerized. This was not a hobbyist. This was a craftswoman. She was drawing out the tip of the bar, flattening and tapering it with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice. She was forging a blade.
He must have made a sound, or perhaps she simply felt his presence. She paused, the hammer held aloft, and turned her head. Her eyes, a startling green against the soot on her face, met his. There was no surprise in them, only a flicker of defiance.
"You said to contribute our skills," she said, her voice raised over the hiss of the hot metal and the roar of the forge. "This is mine. My father's, really. He was a bladesmith. I was the son he never had." She quenched the half-formed blade in a bucket of oil with a violent sizzle, the steam clouding the air between them.
Rex stepped fully into the forge. The heat was intense, a physical wall. "I see that," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. He gestured to the crate. "I had planned for the armory to be for storage and maintenance. Not for creation."
"Maintenance is pointless if you can't replace what's broken," she countered, wiping her forehead with the back of her glove, leaving a new smudge. "A sword loses its edge, an axe head cracks, a hundred arrowheads are lost in a fight. You need a source. You need a forge." She looked at him, her gaze sharp and assessing. "You're building something that needs to last, right? Not just look pretty?"
He held her gaze, the unspoken truth hanging in the hot, metal-scented air. "Yes," he said simply. It was the most honest admission he had made to anyone here.
A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. "Good. Then you need me. The propane is a crutch. I need to get the main hearth going. I'll need charcoal. A lot of it."
"Consider it done," Rex said. The decision was instantaneous. Her skill was a resource more valuable than any crate of supplies. It was generative. It was the ability to create and repair, the very essence of sustainability.
He looked around the forge, seeing it not as a ruin, but as a vital organ for his nascent community. "What do you need? A proper bellows? Tools? Assistants?"
"All of it," Kaelen said, turning back to her anvil and picking up another length of steel. "But first, I need to finish this. It's a start." She shoved the steel back into the flames.
The cling-clang resumed, louder and more confident now. It was no longer just a sound. It was a declaration. The heart of Avalon was beginning to beat, strong and steady, in the soot-stained hands of a fiery-haired girl and her forge.