The afternoon sun hit the limestone courtyard of the Vane-Crest estate, but it provided no warmth. It was the day of the Departure Brunch, a tradition where the extended family gathered before the trek to the Summit in Veridia.
Priscilla stood by a stone balustrade, watching the carriages arrive. Among them was the crest of the House of Braxton—her father's sister's family. They were notorious for their "pure blood" obsession and their disdain for the "filthy" industrial work of the North.
Leading the group was Julian Braxton, a cousin two years older than Priscilla. He was dressed in shimmering silks from the East, a stark contrast to the functional, dark-toned wool Priscilla now wore.
"Well, if it isn't the Little Mouse of the North," Julian drawled, his voice carrying across the courtyard. His younger brother and sister trailed behind him, snickering. "I heard a rumor you've been spending your time in the coal pits, Priscilla. Is that why your skin looks so sallow? Or is it just the stench of failure finally sticking to you?"
The servants nearby bowed their heads, used to this dynamic. The "Old Priscilla" would have already turned and bolted for her room.
Instead, Priscilla turned slowly. She held a crystal glass of mineral water, her grip relaxed. Her eyes were flat, tracking Julian's movements like a hawk measuring a mouse's trajectory.
"Julian," she said, her voice terrifyingly calm. "Your arrival is as loud as your fashion sense. I assume the silk is to hide the fact that you haven't put on a pound of muscle since we last met?"
The snickering stopped abruptly. Julian's face flushed a deep, angry red. "How dare you? You're a defect, Priscilla. A stuttering, pathetic girl who can't even look her betters in the eye. Father says it's a disgrace that you're even allowed to attend the Summit. You'll just embarrass the Vane-Crest name further."
He stepped into her personal space, reaching out a hand to flick her shoulder—a demeaning gesture he had used for years to make her flinch.
He never finished the movement.
Priscilla didn't move her feet. She simply tilted her head an inch to the left, letting his hand pass through empty air. Before he could recover his balance, she grabbed his wrist.
The speed was surgical.
She twisted his arm behind his back and stepped into his center of gravity. With a sharp, practiced shove, she sent Julian sprawling face-first into the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard.
SPLASH.
"Julian!" his sister shrieked.
Julian sputtered, gasping for air as he hauled his soaked, silk-clad body out of the freezing water. "You... you bitch! Guards! She's lost her mind!"
The guards hesitated. They had seen the move. It wasn't the flailing of a hysterical girl; it was the execution of a professional.
Priscilla walked to the edge of the fountain. She looked down at him, her shadow looming over his shivering form.
"The only thing 'defective' here, Julian, is your reaction time," she said. She reached out and plucked a damp leaf off his shoulder. "If you ever raise a hand toward me again, I won't use the fountain. I'll use the forge. And I promise you, Julian, I am much better at shaping metal than I am at being polite."
She turned on her heel and came face-to-face with Alistair.
He was standing on the terrace above, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't reaching for his notebook this time. He was just staring, his eyes fixed on the way she held her shoulders—the perfect posture of a combatant.
"A shift in the musculoskeletal response," Alistair called out, his voice echoing. "You didn't just push him, Priscilla. You used a lever-action joint lock. Where did a girl who reads poetry in the dark learn the mechanics of a break-fall?"
Priscilla didn't stop walking. She passed him, her shoulder brushing his.
"Read your own books, Alistair," she replied. "Biology is just another form of engineering. I simply decided to upgrade my hardware."
Inside the manor, the Duke stood by the window, having seen the entire exchange. For the first time in years, he didn't look disappointed. He looked terrified.