Back in the Vane-Crest wing of the Holy See, the atmosphere was a mix of terror and frantic preparation. Guards stood at every door, their hands trembling on their halberds. Inside her private chambers, Priscilla had cleared the vanity of perfumes and jewelry, replacing them with jars of charcoal, vials of nitric acid, and a set of precision calipers.
Alistair sat in the corner, watching her work. He had stopped taking notes. He was simply staring.
"You're not going back to Severa, are you?" he asked quietly.
"Severa is too small for what's coming, Alistair," Priscilla replied, her fingers moving with surgical speed as she assembled a prototype trigger mechanism. "The Holy See is the center of the continent. If I build the first industrial foundry here, under the guise of 'Cathedral Maintenance,' I can control the trade flow of all four nations."
"The High Priest will never allow it."
"The High Priest will allow whatever the person with the biggest cannon tells him to allow," she said, looking up. "And since I just turned the Western watchtower into a memory, I think he'll be very cooperative."
She picked up a heavy piece of parchment—the blueprint for her first steam-powered assembly line. It wasn't just a machine; it was a map for a new civilization.
"Alistair, I need your help," she said, her voice softening just a fraction.
Alistair blinked, surprised by the sudden flash of "sisterly" tone. "My help? With what? I'm a doctor, not a blacksmith."
"I need you to map the nervous systems of the Obsidian Guard," she said, the cold gold returning to her eyes. "I want to know their reaction times, their blind spots, and how their armor affects their peripheral vision. If I'm going to build weapons, I need to know exactly how they'll be used to dismantle our enemies."
Alistair felt a shiver of pure, cold dread. She wasn't asking for medical advice; she was asking for a biological hit-list.
"You're serious," he breathed.
"I am the most advanced thing on this planet, Alistair," Priscilla said, standing up and looking out over the city of Veridia. "And it's time I started acting like it. The North is no longer just a nation. It's a factory. And the world is about to become our primary customer."
She picked up her prototype hand-cannon, checked the load, and tucked it into her belt. The era of the "Silent Mouse" was officially over. The era of the Industrial Empress had begun.
Priscilla didn't wait for Alistair's response.
She didn't need his permission; she only needed his compliance. She turned her back on him, moving toward the heavy oak wardrobe where her "noble" attire was kept.
With a sharp tug, she pulled out a silk corset and tossed it onto the hearth. It sat there for a moment before the embers caught the lace, the fabric shriveling into black ash.
"No more cages," she whispered.
She pulled out a set of dark leather riding trousers and a sturdy, high-collared tunic reinforced with hidden chainmail. As she dressed, her movements were a study in efficiency—the way she cinched her belt, the way she checked the tension on her boots.
Every action was stripped of the unnecessary flourishes of a lady.
"Alistair," she said, her voice echoing in the stone room. "You think I'm a monster because I've replaced 'spirit' with 'logic.' But look at the world you've lived in. Look at Malakor. Look at the West, who would burn our villages for a vein of gold. They are the monsters who hide behind manners. I am the monster who shows you the teeth."
She reached into a small wooden box and pulled out a handful of lead pellets and a flask of the refined "Devil's Dust." She loaded the hand-cannon with a rhythmic, mechanical grace.
"The Holy See thinks they are neutral ground," Priscilla continued, sliding the weapon into the custom sheath on her thigh. "They think their 'Ever-Mist' and their stained glass protect them from the reality of power. But starting tomorrow, this cathedral becomes my forge. I will buy the labor of the poor, I will out-produce the guilds of the South, and I will make the 'Ancient Magic' of the East look like a child's card trick."
She walked to the door, stopping only to look at the reflection of the girl she used to be in the tall, silver-framed mirror. The girl in the glass looked terrified. Priscilla reached out and smeared a streak of soot across the mirror's face, blurring the image into a gray shadow.
"The North is no longer a place on a map, Alistair," she said, opening the door. "It's a mindset. And I'm going to make sure the entire continent learns to speak our language."
Alistair watched her disappear into the torchlit corridor, the sound of her heavy boots receding like the heartbeat of a giant. He looked down at his trembling hands, then at the empty hearth where the corset had burned away.
"God help us," he whispered, finally picking up his pen. "She's not just building a factory. She's building a tomb for the old world."
Outside, a sudden wind caught the banners of the Holy See, snapping them against the stone. But for the first time in history, the wind didn't sound like magic. It sounded like the roar of a furnace, stoked by a girl who had died and been reborn with a heart made of steel.