"The King of the West is demanding a trade monopoly on our high-grade ore," her father, the Duke, said, pacing the room until the floorboards groaned. "And the South is withholding the rare chemicals you asked for, Priscilla. They say you're 'unstable.'"
Priscilla didn't look up from the blueprints she was studying. "The South is smart. They recognize a predator when they see one. As for the West... let them demand. A man with a sword always thinks he's in control until he meets a man with a gun."
"A what?" the Duke blinked.
"Nothing, Father. Go prepare for the banquet. Wear your heaviest ceremonial armor. I want the House of Vane-Crest to look like the fortress it is."
Alistair entered as the Duke left. He looked at Priscilla, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "I spent all night analyzing the residue from the catacombs," he said, tossing a paper onto her desk. "It's a combustion reaction that exceeds any magical fire-spell in sheer kinetic output. You aren't just making weapons, Priscilla. You're making the sword of the common man. If a peasant can hold that power, the age of Nobles is over."
"Good," Priscilla said, finally looking up. Her eyes were like molten gold. "The 'age of Nobles' has been a stagnant pond for too long. It needs a stone thrown into it. A very large, very explosive stone."
"You're terrifying," Alistair said, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration.
"No, Alistair," she replied, standing up and smoothing her sharp, dark gown. "I'm just the only one in this room who isn't afraid of the dark.
As she walked toward the door, she stopped at the massive oak desk, her fingers trailing over a small, brass-encased cylinder—a prototype hand-cannon. She tucked it into the hidden sheath at her thigh, the weight a comforting reminder of the laws of physics.
"One more thing, Alistair," she said, her back to him. "You've been tracking my brain patterns. You've been looking for the 'glitch' that turned your timid sister into a strategist. Stop looking. The brain is just hardware. What you're seeing is the software being upgraded to handle a world that wants to delete us."
Alistair watched her exit, his quill frozen over his notebook. For all his medical brilliance, he couldn't explain the sheer presence she carried—the way the air seemed to chill in her wake, and the way her footsteps no longer hesitated but struck the floor with the finality of a gavel.
Outside the window, the sun began to sink behind the Iron-Vein Mountains, casting long, bloody shadows across the Holy See. The "Timid Daughter" was gone, and as the bells began to chime for the Grand Banquet, Priscilla Vane-Crest didn't feel like a lady attending a dinner. She felt like a general walking onto the field of a war that her enemies didn't even know had started yet.
The stage was set. The gunpowder was dry. And the North was no longer content with providing the world's iron; it was ready to provide its end.