The moon had reached its zenith, silvering the frost that clung to the hedges of the Holy See's labyrinthine gardens. Priscilla walked alone, the hem of her mercury-colored gown whispering against the stone. She didn't need a lantern; the adrenaline still humming through her veins provided a preternatural sharpness to her vision.
She stopped at the edge of a reflection pool. In the still water, she didn't see a noblewoman. She saw a weapon.
"You know, in the West, we have a saying," a voice drifted from the shadows of a weeping willow. "Never turn your back on a predator, even if she's wearing silk."
Kelvin Devereux stepped into the moonlight. He had shed his obsidian breastplate, wearing only a loose white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and dark trousers. He looked less like a prince and more like a duelist.
Priscilla didn't turn. She watched his reflection in the water. "And in the North, we say: if you see a wolf in the garden, it's because he's already lost his territory."
Kelvin chuckled, stepping closer until he was just outside her striking range. "My territory is fine, Priscilla. It's my curiosity that's suffering. That 'telescope' of yours... the way the air fractured when it fired. My mages are calling it a 'miracle of the void.' But I saw your face when you lit the fuse. There was no prayer in your eyes. Only math."
"Miracles are for people who can't explain the world around them," Priscilla said, finally turning to face him. She kept her hands visible, but her weight was shifted onto the balls of her feet—a fighter's stance masked by a lady's poise. "I don't deal in miracles. I deal in pressure, combustion, and velocity."
Kelvin's eyes raked over her, settling on the slight bulge beneath the silk of her thigh—the hidden hand-cannon. "And what do you call the 'miracle' you have strapped to your leg? Is that for me, or are you expecting more uninvited guests?"
"It's an insurance policy, Prince Kelvin. The world is suddenly very interested in the Vane-Crest family. I've found that a lead ball is a very effective way to end a conversation."
Kelvin took a bold step forward, entering her personal space. The scent of sandalwood and expensive wine moved with him. "My father wants to annex your mountains. He wants the secret of that powder. He thinks he can crush the North and take what he wants by force."
"He can try," Priscilla whispered, her gaze meeting his with a chilling lack of fear. "But tell him that the moment a Western soldier crosses the Iron-Vein border, I will turn the mountains themselves into a graveyard. I don't need an army to stop him. I just need a high vantage point and enough sulfur."
Kelvin reached out, his fingers stopping just short of her chin. He wasn't trying to be romantic; he was testing the air, feeling the raw, vibrating energy she emitted. "I told him it wouldn't work. You can't annex a storm. You can only hope to be the one standing next to it when it breaks."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "I don't want your mountains, Priscilla. I want the mind that mapped them. Let's make a deal. I provide the military cover—my Obsidian Guard to watch your back while you build your 'New World.' In exchange, you give me the first right to your inventions. Not for the West. For me."
Priscilla's lip curled into a smirk—a pure, baddie expression that made Kelvin's heart skip a beat. She reached out and gripped his hand, not tenderly, but with the strength of a woman who had spent weeks lifting iron spheres in the sandpits.
"You're asking to ride the lightning, Kelvin," she said, her voice like cracking ice. "But remember this: I don't take partners. I take assets. If you want to stand next to the storm, you'd better make sure you don't get struck by it."
She shoved his hand back and walked past him, her cloak swirling like a shadow.
"The Banquet of Thorns was just the beginning," she called back without looking. "Tomorrow, I start building the factory. Tell your father to keep his soldiers at home. I'd hate to have to test my 'handheld insurance' on a prince."
Kelvin stood in the moonlight, a slow, dark grin spreading across his face as he watched her disappear. He touched his hand where she had gripped it—his skin was still tingling from the pressure.
"Assets," he whispered to the empty garden. "I think I can live with that."