The first true test of Rex's new-world-in-the-making came not from marauders or the elements, but from a force as old as human society: bureaucracy. A small, official-looking car bearing the insignia of the Departement des Monuments Historiques crept up the road and parked beside Isabelle Moreau's SUV.
Two men emerged. One was tall and thin, with a perpetually disapproving expression, clutching a leather-bound notepad. The other was shorter, rounder, and carried a camera with a long lens. Monsieur Girard, the inspector, and his assistant, Philippe.
Jean Delahaye, spotting them from his scaffold, gave a low grunt that carried across the courtyard. "Les flics de la pierre," he muttered to Rex. The stone police.
Rex met them with a calm, polite demeanor, his mind already racing through potential conflicts. "Messieurs, welcome to Château de l'Aube Oubliée."
Monsieur Girard did not offer a smile. His eyes, sharp and bird-like, darted around, cataloging every change. "Monsieur Rex. We have received… reports. Of significant, unapproved structural work. This is a site of historical importance, not a construction yard."
"All work is being conducted under the guidance of a certified historical architect, Madame Moreau," Rex replied smoothly, gesturing to where Isabelle was approaching, her expression carefully neutral. "And master stonemason Jean Delahaye. Our goal is preservation."
"Preservation is one thing. Modification is another," Girard said, his gaze landing on the newly installed solar panels on the gatehouse. "What is this? This is an abomination! A desecration of the historic roofline!"
"The roofline of the gatehouse is a 19th-century addition, not original to the medieval structure," Isabelle interjected, her voice cool and professional. She unrolled a section of her plans. "As you can see here, the installation is entirely reversible and causes no damage to the historic fabric. It is a temporary measure to provide power for the restoration work."
Girard sniffed, unconvinced. He stalked over to the bell tower, peering at the fresh mortar in the joints Rex had repointed. "The mortar mix. It has been approved?"
"It is a period-appropriate lime mortar, as specified in the general preservation guidelines for structures of this era," Jean called down from his platform, his tone bordering on insolence. "Would you prefer we let it fall on your head?"
Girard ignored him, moving on like a bloodhound. His assistant, Philippe, snapped photos incessantly. They moved towards the gatekeeper's lodge. Rex's senses went on high alert.
"And this building? It was not on the initial list for Phase One restoration," Girard stated, his hand on the door.
"It's being used for secure storage," Rex said, his voice dropping a degree in temperature. "Tools and sensitive materials."
"I must insist on inspecting. We must ensure no historic elements are being damaged."
For a fraction of a second, Rex considered refusing. The bolt was drawn. Behind that door lay the evidence of his true intent, crates of supplies that would raise unanswerable questions. But refusal would be an admission of guilt. He had to play the game.
"Of course," Rex said, his face a mask of cooperation. He stepped forward and slid back the heavy bolt with a loud, deliberate clunk.
The door swung open. The wall of grey plastic crates was immediately visible, stacked to the ceiling. Girard's eyes widened slightly.
"What is the meaning of this? This is not a toolshed. This is a… a warehouse!"
"Supplies for the festival," Rex repeated his well-worn line, his heart a steady, controlled drumbeat in his chest. "As I said, it's a remote site. We need to be self-sufficient. Catering, medical tents, that sort of thing."
Girard walked along the stacks, reading the coded labels. "MED-1? NUTR-3? This seems excessive for a festival."
"I believe in being prepared, Monsieur Girard," Rex said, locking eyes with the inspector. "Unexpected delays, bad weather, a larger-than-expected turnout. I am responsible for the safety and comfort of my guests and workers. Would you prefer I was irresponsible?"
He turned the question back on the bureaucrat, using the man's own obsession with rules and safety against him. Isabelle stepped in, her voice a calming influence. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur, the structure is unharmed. The storage is temporary and necessary for the scale of the project. We are following all protocols for the listed structures. Perhaps we should focus on the masonry work on the tower, which I believe you will find is of the highest standard."
Girard was outmaneuvered. He could harp on the solar panels or the supplies, but he had no legal ground to stand on. The real work, the stonework, was impeccable. He could find no fault with Delahaye's craft. With a final, frustrated sigh, he snapped his notepad shut.
"Very well. The work may continue. For now. But we will be watching. Any deviation from the submitted plans, and I will issue a stop-work order."
The officials left, the mood lifting palpably as their car disappeared.
Jean climbed down from the scaffold, spitting into the dust. "Paperwork and foolishness. They would rather see a monument die 'correctly' than see it live with a few modern comforts."
Isabelle let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. "That was close, Rex. They were suspicious. The supplies… they are a lot."
"They are what is necessary," Rex said, his gaze following the dust trail of the departed car. The encounter had been a warning. The old world, with its rules and its prying eyes, was still a threat. It could choke his project with red tape before the real danger ever arrived.
He had passed the first test. But it had clarified a crucial point. His fortress needed to be secure not just from the chaos to come, but from the dying gasps of the world that was