The silence in the great hall was broken by the crunch of gravel under heavy tires. Rex turned from the window frame, his moment of reverie shattered by the arrival of the present. A dusty white van, looking profoundly out of place in the medieval courtyard, came to a halt. On its side was stenciled "DELAHAYE & FILS - ARTISANS DE LA PIERRE."
Rex pulled his work gloves back on, the stiff leather a familiar second skin. The planning was over. The doing had begun.
He met the driver as he stepped out, a man in his late fifties with a face like tanned leather and hands that looked like they had been shaped from the very rock they worked.
"Monsieur Rex?" the man asked, his voice a gravelly rumble. He looked the young man up and down, his eyes lingering on the dirt smudges and the confident set of his shoulders. He'd expected a pampered billionaire, not someone who looked like he'd already been putting in a hard day's labor.
"Oui. Vous devez être Monsieur Delahaye," Rex replied, his French fluent, if slightly accented. He had spent the last six months immersed in the language, knowing it was essential.
"Jean," the man corrected with a slight nod of approval. "My son, Luc, is in the van. You have the plans?"
Rex led them inside, the two stonemasons following him with the practiced eye of their trade. They didn't see the romance or the decay; they saw cracked lintels, crumbling mortar, and water damage. Jean let out a low whistle that echoed in the vast space.
"It is worse than the photos," he stated, not unkindly, just factually. "The roof... it is the heart of the problem. No roof, the rain comes. The rain comes, the walls get sick. The walls get sick, they fall down."
"I know," Rex said. "The roof is the first priority. Then the primary structural walls. We start with the great hall and the keep. The outer buildings can wait."
Jean grunted, running a hand over a damp patch on the wall, his fingers probing the soft stone. "You have the money for this? This is not a project for a man with a shallow purse."
"I have the money," Rex said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I also have the time. And I will be working alongside you."
Jean and Luc exchanged a skeptical glance. The son, a younger, quieter version of his father, finally spoke. "This is not play-work, monsieur. It is back-breaking."
Rex met his gaze. "I've spent the last two months with Pierre Fournier in the Vercors. He taught me how to mix lime mortar, how to dress a stone, and how to listen to what the wall is telling me."
A flicker of surprise crossed Jean's face. "Fournier? The old goat is still alive? And he let you call him Pierre?" He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Alright then. We will see if you listened well. The first delivery of scaffold is tomorrow. We start by assessing the bell tower. It looks like a strong wind will finish what gravity started."
For the next three hours, they toured the castle and the surrounding village. Rex showed them his vision, not with grand words, but with practical points. This gatehouse needed its portcullis mechanism assessed. That section of the curtain wall had a bulge that made his engineer's mind nervous. This well in the village square needed to be cleared and its water tested.
He spoke of load-bearing capacities, water runoff, and structural integrity. He was not a dreamer with a fanciful idea; he was a project manager with a terrifyingly vast and detailed plan. The Delahayes' initial skepticism slowly melted into a grudging respect. The boy knew what he was talking about.
As the sun began to dip below the tree line, casting long shadows through the empty windows, Jean wiped his forehead. "We will be back at first light. We will need a site office. Somewhere dry."
"The gatekeeper's lodge," Rex said, pointing to a small, stone building by the main gate. "It's the most intact. I've already had a temporary power line run from the generator. There's a water connection, too."
Jean nodded, satisfied. "Bien. Until tomorrow."
The van rumbled away, leaving Rex alone once more with the stones and the silence. But the silence felt different now. It was no longer empty; it was pregnant with potential. The first stone, metaphorically, had been laid.
He walked back into the great hall, the sheer scale of the task ahead settling on his shoulders like a physical weight. It was one thing to see it on a blueprint, another to stand in the middle of it. The decay was overwhelming. For a moment, a flicker of doubt, cold and sharp, pricked at his confidence. What if he had bitten off more than he could chew? What if the collapse he feared never came, and he was just a fool who had poured a fortune into a pile of old rocks?
He pushed the thought aside, his jaw tightening. Doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had made his choice. He had committed.
He picked up a loose stone from the floor, hefting its cool, rough weight in his palm. This wasn't just a restoration. It was a act of defiance. A bet against an uncertain future. He was building his fortress, not just against invading armies, but against the creeping chaos of a world unspooling.
Closing his fingers around the stone, he made a promise to the silent hall, to the sleeping village, and to himself.
He would see this through.