The South Gate of Veridia was a jagged tooth of granite that looked out over the salt marshes. It was the only entrance not patrolled by the Holy See's gilded knights; instead, it was the domain of the Solis Merchant Kings and the "rogue" elements of the Western army.
Priscilla stood atop a crumbling parapet, her duster billowing in the salt spray. Beside her, Jax checked the tension on a heavy, tripod-mounted prototype—a repeating crossbow modified to fire explosive-tipped bolts.
"The shipment is late," Jax whispered, his eyes scanning the dark horizon.
"Caspian Valerius is never late for profit," Priscilla replied, her hand resting on the hilt of her obsidian dagger. "He's being hunted."
As if on cue, the distant sound of thunder rolled across the marshes—but there were no clouds. It was the sound of heavy cavalry. Emerging from the fog, a lone Solis carriage thundered toward the gate, its driver lashing the horses into a frenzy. Behind them, a dozen riders in the crimson-and-black of the Western "Iron-Hounds" followed, their obsidian lances glowing with a murderous intent.
"Those aren't Kelvin's men," Jax hissed. "Those are the King's personal enforcers."
"They're scavengers," Priscilla said, her voice dropping into a lethal, guttural register. "They think they can steal the Devil's Dust and cut me out of the equation."
The carriage swerved, a wheel shattering against a rock. It skidded to a halt just fifty yards from the gate. The riders surrounded it, their lances lowered.
Priscilla didn't shout. She didn't call for a parley. She simply signaled Jax.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The repeating crossbow barked. The explosive bolts didn't strike the men; they struck the ground beneath the horses. The resulting blasts of fire and shrapnel sent the riders into a chaotic spiral of screaming animals and shattered obsidian.
Priscilla leaped from the parapet, her duster flaring like the wings of a predatory bird. She landed in a crouch, sliding through the mud and rising with her hand-cannon already leveled.
BANG.
The lead rider's helmet shattered. He fell before he could even register the sound. Priscilla moved through the fog like a ghost made of gunpowder. She didn't just shoot; she dismantled. When a rider lunged with a lance, she stepped inside his reach, grabbed the shaft, and used it as a lever to snap his collarbone before putting a lead ball through his chest.
But as the last rider fell, a cold, familiar laughter echoed from the gatehouse.
"A bit messy, little sister. You've always had a flair for the dramatic, but your footwork in the mud is still a four out of ten."
Priscilla froze. She turned slowly toward the shadows of the gate.
Standing there, leaning casually against a stone pillar, was a man dressed in a suit of midnight-velvet, his hair perfectly coiffed despite the salt spray. He held a thin, silver-headed cane in one hand and a blood-stained ledger in the other.
Silas Vane-Crest. The Shadow of the family. The middle brother who had disappeared six months ago to "manage" the family's southern interests.
"Silas," Priscilla said, her eyes narrowing. "You're supposed to be in Solis."
"I was. Until Mother decided that the North was becoming far too interesting to watch from a distance," Silas said, flashing a charming, predatory smile that matched Priscilla's own. He stepped aside, revealing a woman sitting on a portable velvet throne just inside the gatehouse.
Duchess Elara Vane-Crest.
The Matriarch of the North sat with a spine of steel, her hands folded over a cane made of black iron. Her face was a mask of terrifying elegance, her eyes two cold chips of flint that seemed to weigh Priscilla's very soul.
"Priscilla," the Duchess said, her voice like the sound of a closing tomb. "I heard you flipped a table at your Uncle Malakor. I also heard you've been playing with the filth of the Lower See."
She stood up, her presence so suffocating that even the surviving Iron-Hounds on the ground crawled away in terror. She walked toward Priscilla, stepping over the corpses without a glance.
"You've grown teeth, child," Elara whispered, reaching out to wipe a streak of blood from Priscilla's cheek with a silk handkerchief. "But are they sharp enough to bite the throat of a King? Or are you just a girl playing with matches?"
Silas chuckled, walking over to the wreckage of the Solis carriage. He kicked a crate open, revealing the dull grey powder of the refined sulfur. "She's more than a girl with matches, Mother. She's building a god in the catacombs. I've seen the reports. The 'Unseen' are calling her the Architect."
Silas turned to Priscilla, his eyes sparkling with a dark, shared madness. "I've brought the rest of the chemical fleet, sister. And I've brought Mother. She wanted to see if her 'Silent Mouse' had truly turned into a lioness. I must say... I'm impressed by the body count."
Priscilla didn't flinch. She stood her ground between her terrifying mother and her manipulative brother. "The North is no longer a graveyard, Mother. It's a factory. And if you're here to lead, you're too late. I've already taken the throne of the Underworld."
Elara's eyes flashed—not with anger, but with a horrifying, prideful joy. "Then show us, Architect. Show us the horrifying side of this new world you've built. Because the King of the West is coming to our chambers tonight to demand your hand in marriage. I think it's time he learned that a Vane-Crest doesn't marry... we dominate."