The courtyard of the Holy See was bathed in the silver, indifferent light of a full moon. The leaders of the four nations followed Priscilla out of the hall, their faces a mask of shock, suppressed fury, and—for the first time—genuine curiosity.
Priscilla climbed onto the back of the iron carriage. She pulled back the heavy tarp, revealing the "Vane-Crest Cannon"—a black, hulking beast of nickel-steel and brass that looked less like a machine and more like a predator waiting to roar.
"For centuries," Priscilla said, her voice ringing across the plaza like a clarion call, "you have fought with swords and spells. You believed that power was a gift of the gods or the blood. You believed that the North was just the servant that provided the steel for your blades."
She took a burning torch from Hagar, the flame dancing in her golden eyes.
"I am here to tell you that power is a science. And science doesn't care about your titles."
She pointed the massive iron barrel toward the "Shield-Wall Range" on the horizon—specifically at a ruined watchtower that had stood as a symbol of Western dominance for three hundred years.
"Kelvin Devereux," she called out, looking directly at the Western Prince, who stood at the front of the crowd. "You said the North was a land of ghosts. Listen closely. This is the sound of the ghosts waking up."
She touched the torch to the touch-hole.
KABOOM.
The explosion was a physical assault on the senses. A six-foot tongue of orange flame erupted from the muzzle, illuminating the courtyard in a hellish glow. The recoil rocked the heavy iron carriage, its steel wheels digging deep grooves into the ancient stone.
A split second later, the watchtower on the horizon—a mile away—didn't just fall. It turned into a cloud of white dust and falling masonry. The sound of the impact reached them seconds later, a low, tectonic rumble that shook the very foundations of the cathedral.
Priscilla stood in the swirling white smoke, the heat shimmering off her skin as if she were made of the forge itself. She looked at the gathered kings—the "Gods" of the old world—and saw that they were finally, truly, afraid.
"That," she said, her voice cold and absolute in the ringing silence, "is the New North. Any more questions about my soul, or should I aim the next one at your palace?"
Kelvin Devereux stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the smoking iron barrel. He wasn't looking at a girl anymore. He was looking at the end of an era. And for the first time in his life, he felt a chill of genuine terror—and a thrill of absolute obsession.
Alistair stood in the shadows, his notebook forgotten on the stones. He realized then that he would never be able to map her brain. Because Priscilla wasn't a person anymore. She was a revolution.
—
The silence in Alistair's private study was punctuated only by the rhythmic scratching of a fountain pen and the distant, haunting toll of the cathedral bells. On the mahogany desk lay a leather-bound journal, its pages filled with frantic, clinical observations.