The arrival of the twenty nomads threw Avalon into a state of controlled chaos. Rex's first law was enforced with absolute rigidity. The new arrivals were not allowed to mix with the existing population. They were housed in the old stone stables, which Elara and a now-volunteer Madame Dubois had hastily converted into a quarantine zone, hanging tarps to create separate areas.
Elara was in her element, a calm general in a war against disease. She moved among the sick, her mask on, assessing, diagnosing, distributing the precious antibiotics and rehydration salts from her stores. The coughing child, a little girl named Sophie, was given immediate treatment, her feverish whimpers a constant, haunting sound from the quarantine block.
Kaelen, meanwhile, was a storm of contained fury. She had taken charge of the newcomers' "integration," which initially meant hard, manual labor under her watchful eye. She put them to work clearing the overgrown fields within the walls, a task that was both productive and exhausting enough to keep them from causing trouble.
"They are weak. Useless," she grumbled to Rex, watching a man struggle to lift a heavy root. "They will eat our food and give us their plague. This was a mistake."
"Strength can be built," Rex replied, his eyes on Elara as she emerged from the stable, wiping her brow. "Loyalty, once earned, is stronger than any wall. Watch them, Kaelen. But give them a chance to earn their place."
The true test came on the third day. One of the nomads, an older man with a persistent cough, took a turn for the worse in the night. By morning, he was feverish and delirious. Fear, a contagion more virulent than any bacteria, spread through the quarantine zone. Whispers of "they're going to kill us" and "this is a trap" began to circulate.
The man with the knife from the clearing, whose name was Felix, confronted Kaelen as she brought the morning water ration.
"He needs a real doctor! Not just your woman with her pills!" Felix demanded, his fear making him aggressive.
Kaelen's hand went to the hatchet on her belt. "You will not speak of Elara that way. She is doing more for you than you deserve."
The situation was teetering on the brink of a riot when Rex arrived. He took in the scene at a glance: the terrified faces, Kaelen's defensive posture, Felix's desperate anger.
He walked past Kaelen, directly up to Felix, ignoring the potential threat. "Elara is the reason any of you are still alive," he said, his voice low but cutting through the panic. "She is using our most valuable medicine to save people who, a week ago, were a threat to us. If you think this is a trap, you are a fool."
He turned his back on Felix, a gesture of supreme confidence, and addressed the whole group. "The law is the law. The quarantine stands. But we are not your jailers. We are your only chance. That man in there," he pointed to the stable, "is being given the same care I would give my own council. His fate is in God's hands and Elara's skill, not in my whims. Now, get back to work. You earn your food, and you earn your place."
His words, a blend of iron will and unexpected compassion, defused the tension. The crowd shuffled back. Felix, deflated, dropped his gaze.
Later that day, the old man's fever broke. Elara emerged, exhausted but smiling, to announce he would live. The news swept through the nomads, and the mood shifted from suspicion to a fragile, burgeoning gratitude.
That evening, as Rex walked the walls, he saw a small, huddled figure by the stable block. It was Liana. She had her sketchbook open and was drawing not the scene, but a single, detailed flower she had found growing near the wall. One of the nomad children, a little boy, was watching her, mesmerized.
Slowly, Liana tore the page out. She didn't look at the boy, but she slid the drawing across the ground towards him. He stared at it, then snatched it up, his face breaking into a wide, gap-toothed smile before he scurried away.
Rex felt a knot in his chest loosen. The gamble was paying off. The sickness was being contained. The weak were being strengthened. And the artist, in her own quiet way, was mending the human spirit, one drawing at a time.
The forge's fire heated the steel, but it was these smaller, quieter fires of compassion and shared purpose that were truly tempering the soul of Avalon.