The morning sun over Severa was a pale, sickly disc, muffled by the constant plumes of gray smoke rising from the Vane-Crest district. Inside the manor's private exhibition hall, the air was uncharacteristically tense. Duke Vane-Crest sat in a high-backed velvet chair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest. Beside him stood Alistair, his silver-rimmed spectacles catching the light of the chandeliers.
"Priscilla, this is highly unusual," the Duke boomed, his voice echoing off the marble floors. "You requested a formal audience to present... a hobby? Your brother tells me you've been spending your nights in the soot of the lower forges."
Priscilla stepped out from behind a heavy linen curtain. She was dressed in a sharp, high-collared gown of midnight blue, tailored to hide the bruising on her forearms. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun. Behind her stood Hagar and three apprentices, pushing a wheeled platform covered in a tarp.
"It is not a hobby, Father," Priscilla said. Her voice lacked the breathy tremor that had once defined it. It was resonant, dropping an octave into a tone of absolute command. "It is the future of our House."
With a sharp tug, she whipped the tarp away.
The machine underneath was a brass-and-iron beast. It wasn't the clunky, oversized engines the North currently used to pump water from the mines. This was compact, a sophisticated arrangement of sliding valves, a vertical boiler, and a high-speed flywheel connected to a series of automated looms.
"What is this?" Alistair stepped forward, his notebook already open. He circled the machine, his eyes scanning the intricate piping. "The displacement ratio is impossible for a boiler this size. Where is the manual pressure release?"
"There isn't one," Priscilla replied, stepping into Alistair's space. She didn't flinch as he loomed over her. She pointed to a small, spinning brass device atop the engine—a centrifugal governor. "It regulates itself. As the speed increases, the arms rise, closing the throttle valve. It's a closed-loop feedback system. It doesn't need a human to watch it. It doesn't get tired. And it doesn't make mistakes."
She reached for a lever and pulled.
The machine hissed. A plume of white steam vented from the side, and then the flywheel began to blur. The connected looms roared to life, the shuttles flying back and forth with a rhythmic, violent speed that made the Duke jump in his seat. Within seconds, a strip of high-quality wool was being woven before their eyes—faster than ten master weavers could work.
"This..." The Duke stood up, his eyes wide. "The textile Houses in the South would pay a fortune for this. Priscilla, how did you—"
"I didn't 'discover' this in a dream, Father," she interrupted, her eyes locking onto Alistair's. "I calculated it. The North has been stagnating, relying on raw strength and old coal. We have the iron. We have the heat. We just lacked the 'genius' to refine it."
She used the word genius like a weapon, throwing it back at Alistair.
Alistair didn't look at the cloth. He looked at Priscilla's hand as she adjusted a brass dial. Her movements were precise, devoid of the hesitation he had spent years documenting.
"The governor," Alistair muttered, his voice low enough only for her to hear. "A mechanism that reacts to its own environment to maintain stability. Much like you've been doing these past two weeks, sister."
Priscilla didn't look away. "A machine that can't adapt is just scrap metal, Alistair. I suggest you remember that."
The Duke laughed, a booming sound of genuine pride. "Regardless of how you found this spark, it's a triumph! We shall present this at the Summer Summit in Veridia. The East thinks we are nothing but mountain barbarians. We will show them the power of the Vane-Crest mind."
Priscilla bowed, a shallow, mocking gesture. As her father and the apprentices began discussing the logistics of transport, she felt Alistair's gaze burning into the back of her neck.
He wasn't impressed by the steam. He was hunting for the soul that had replaced his sister.
"One more thing, Father," Priscilla said, turning back. "The export of these machines will be handled by me. I've already drafted the contracts for the Solis merchants. We need their rare chemicals for the next phase."
"The next phase?" The Duke blinked.
Priscilla smiled, a cold, sharp expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Electricity. Why wait for the sun to rise when we can manufacture the light ourselves?"