The sun rose over Veridia not with its usual golden warmth, but through a thick, acrid haze that clung to the spires like a shroud. The Holy See awoke to a world that had been fundamentally rewritten in the dark.
The Western Embassy, once a fortress of obsidian and arrogance, was no longer guarded by the King's Iron-Hounds. Instead, it was surrounded by a silent, grimy phalanx of the "Unseen." Hundreds of orphans and laborers stood in a perfect, chilling circle around the perimeter. They didn't carry swords; they carried long, iron-sighted rifles—Priscilla's first production run—and glass vials of the "Devil's Dust" strapped to their chests like suicide pacts.
Inside the Embassy's central courtyard, the air was still warm from the night's violence. King Valerius Devereux stood on his balcony, looking down at the army of rats that had trapped him in his own palace. Beside him, Kelvin stood with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed not on the King, but on the three figures walking slowly across the blood-stained cobbles.
Priscilla led the way, her heavy boots clicking with rhythmic finality. To her left was Silas, his silver-handled revolvers holstered but his hands hovering near his hips. To her right was Alistair, carrying a black medical bag that seemed to radiate a cold, clinical dread.
They didn't stop until they reached the center of the courtyard, directly beneath the King's gaze. Behind them, two of the "Unseen" dragged a heavy, canvas-covered cart.
"Valerius!" Priscilla's voice rang out, devoid of any noble inflection. It was a sound of pure, industrial authority. "The night is over. Your fire has burned out."
The King gripped the stone railing, his knuckles white. "You dare lay siege to a Sovereign? You are a heretic, a murderer, and a—"
"I am the woman who owns your air," Priscilla interrupted. She signaled to Silas.
With a flourish, Silas pulled the canvas from the cart. The King recoiled, and even the Western generals behind him gasped. The cart was filled with the obsidian armor of the soldiers who had died in the Vane-Crest wing. But the armor hadn't been stripped; it had been melted and fused into a single, grotesque pillar of black glass. Atop the pillar, Alistair had mounted the Captain's helmet, but the visor was open. Inside, a complex array of copper wires and vacuum tubes hummed with a low, blue light.
"My brother Alistair spent the morning busy," Silas said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly cheerful. "He found that while the steam cooked the flesh, the nervous systems of your Hounds remained remarkably intact. We've turned your elite guard into a localized wireless relay. If my sister presses a single button on her belt, the signal will travel through the 'Veins' I've laid beneath this embassy."
Alistair stepped forward, opening his bag to reveal a series of remote-detonators connected to the "Devil's Dust" caches hidden in the sewers. "It's a simple chain reaction, Your Majesty," Alistair explained, his eyes cold behind his spectacles. "The human spine is an excellent conductor for the frequency Priscilla has developed. You aren't just surrounded by an army; you are sitting on a biological fuse."
The King looked at Kelvin. "Son... do something! Kill these monsters!"
Kelvin didn't move. He looked at Priscilla, then back at his father. "The North offered you a partnership, Father. You offered them a pyre. The math didn't favor you." He stepped away from the railing, walking toward the stairs to join the Vane-Crests. "I told you: you can't annex a storm."
Priscilla stepped forward, her golden eyes locking onto Valerius. "Here is the ultimatum. You will sign the Trade Sovereignty Act. You will recognize the North not as a vassal, but as the Continental Forge. You will pay for the reconstruction of the Vane-Crest wing in Northern silver. And in exchange..."
She paused, a savage, baddie smirk playing on her lips.
"...I won't turn this embassy into a crater while you're still in it. You have ten minutes to decide if you want to be a King of a new era, or the ghost of an old one."
Silas pulled out a gold pocket watch, the tick-tick-tick sounding like a hammer in the silence. The King of the West looked at the pillar of fused armor, at the cold eyes of his son, and at the girl who had turned the very concept of power into a calculation.
The sun finally broke through the haze, illuminating Priscilla in a harsh, industrial light. She didn't look like a hero. she looked like the future—and the future was made of iron and blood.