Monsieur Dubois, the accountant, stood before the wall of grey crates in the gatekeeper's lodge, a pristine ledger book and a digital tablet in his trembling hands. He looked like a man who had been asked to count grains of sand on a beach. The sheer scale of the inventory was overwhelming.
Rex watched him, his arms crossed. "This is our lifeblood, Dubois. Every gram of grain, every milliliter of medicine, every nail. I need to know what we have, where it is, and its rate of consumption. I need predictive models. If our population grows by ten people a month, how long will our supplies last? I need to know that."
"Oui, Monsieur Rex," Dubois stammered, his eyes wide. "It is just... the volume..."
"It's just numbers," Rex said, his voice calm but firm. "You are an accountant. These are the most important numbers you will ever work with. Your wife is organizing knowledge. You are organizing our survival. Start with the NUTR series. I want a full count and a weight verification."
He left Dubois to his daunting task and walked across the courtyard to the small scriptorium Madame Dubois had claimed. It was a room with good light, and she had already begun sorting through the boxes of books and manuals Rex had collected—everything from Foxfire books on pioneer living to modern engineering textbooks and agricultural guides.
She looked up as he entered, a faint, nervous smile on her face. "Monsieur Rex. I am categorizing by subject. Agriculture, medicine, construction, and... general."
"Good," Rex said, picking up a manual on small-scale hydroelectric power. "Prioritize practical knowledge. How to dig a well, how to treat a infection without penicillin, how to smelt iron from ore. The 'general' section can wait."
"Of course," she said, her hands fluttering over a stack of books. "It is a great responsibility."
"It is," he agreed. "In the world that was, this was just information. In the world that is coming, it is power. Guard it well."
His final stop was the infirmary. He found Elara there with Liana. Elara was showing the girl how to roll bandages from a bolt of clean cloth. Liana's movements were slow, mechanical, but she was following the instructions. Her eyes, however, were fixed on a small, blank notebook and a charcoal pencil lying on the cot beside her.
Rex picked up the notebook and pencil. He held them out to her. "Your first task as chronicler," he said, his voice softer than it had been with her parents. "I need a map of the water sources within the walls. The main well, the secondary well by the old bakery, the stream. Mark them. Can you do that?"
Liana's gaze shifted from his face to the offered tools. For a long moment, she didn't move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out and took them. Her fingers, pale and slender, closed around the charcoal pencil as if it were a lifeline.
She didn't speak, but she gave a single, shallow nod.
Elara met Rex's eyes over the girl's head, her expression one of quiet approval. He was giving her a purpose, a reason to engage with the world again.
As Rex left the infirmary, the sounds of Avalon washed over him—the distant cling-clang of Kaelen's forge, the tapping of the Delahayes' hammers, the rustle of pages as Madame Dubois sorted her library. It was no longer just a construction site. It was an organism, and he had just assigned functions to its vital organs.
The accountant was tracking its resources.
The librarian was organizing its memory.
The healer was tending its health.
The chronicler was beginning to record its story.
The blacksmith was strengthening its sinews.
He walked to the ramparts, looking out over his ten-acre kingdom. The walls were rising, both of stone and of social order. He had imposed his will, not through tyranny, but by giving each person a role, a stake in the collective future. They were no longer just refugees or employees; they were citizens of Avalon.
The ledger-keeper was counting their beans, and in doing so, was quantifying their chances of survival. It was a start.