The Ever-Mist Hills finally peeled away, revealing the valley of Veridia. At its heart sat the Holy See—a sprawling complex of gothic spires, flying buttresses, and stained-glass windows that seemed to glow with an internal, ancient light.
It was a city of silence and secrets. Here, the four nations were forced to sheath their swords, but as the Vane-Crest carriages rolled through the ivory gates, Priscilla knew the knives were simply being hidden under silk.
The welcoming plaza was a sea of color. To the East, the Zephyros delegation stood in robes of shimmering white and gold, their hair catching the wind as if by design. To the West, the Devereux soldiers stood in rigid rows of obsidian and crimson, their capes snapping in the breeze.
"Look at them," Alistair murmured, adjusting his spectacles as he stepped out of the carriage. "The 'Old Magic' of Aetheria and the 'Imperial Might' of Occitania. They look down on us because our hands are stained with oil. To them, we are the grease in their world's gears."
Priscilla stepped onto the cobblestones. She didn't look at the architecture. She looked at the people.
A man detached himself from the Western delegation. He was tall, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes that held the predatory gleam of a wolf. This was Kelvin Devereux, the Crown Prince of the West and the commander of the continent's most feared military.
"Duke Vane-Crest," Kelvin said, his voice a smooth baritone. He gave a shallow bow before turning his gaze toward Priscilla. It wasn't the dismissive look she was used to; it was the look of a man who had heard the reports of the road ambush. "And this must be the Lady Priscilla. I heard your journey through the hills was... transformative."
"Prince Kelvin," Priscilla replied, her voice cool. She didn't offer her hand. "The hills were merely an exercise in waste management. Some trash needed to be cleared from the path."
Kelvin's eyebrows shot up. Beside him, a girl with silver hair and eyes as pale as moonlight stepped forward. Lyra Zephyros the prodigy of the East. She carried a staff tipped with a pulsating blue crystal.
"Such harsh words for a girl from the smoke," Lyra said, her voice like wind chimes. "In Aetheria, we value grace and the flow of the spirit. Perhaps the iron fumes have hardened your heart, Priscilla? You used to be so... quiet."
"Quiet is not the same as empty, Lyra," Priscilla said, stepping forward until she was inches from the Eastern mage. "And grace doesn't build bridges or feed empires. While you've been meditating on the wind, we've been learning how to harness it."
The tension was a physical weight. The surrounding nobles whispered behind their fans. The "Mouseling of the North" was gone; in her place stood a woman who radiated a strange, metallic authority.
"Enough," a booming voice echoed from the cathedral steps. A High Priest of the Holy See, draped in heavy white robes, beckoned them forward. "The Summit is not a place for bickering. The four Houses must prepare for the Opening Banquet. The peace of the continent depends on your cooperation."
As they began to move toward the great hall, Kelvin Devereux fell into step beside Priscilla.
"That dagger at your waist," he said softly, nodding toward the obsidian blade she had taken from the mercenary. "That's Occitanian steel. High-grade. It takes a certain kind of... 'genius' to strip that from a trained soldier without a scratch on oneself."
"I have a talent for taking what I want, Prince Kelvin," Priscilla said, not looking at him. "I suggest you keep your own steel close. I'm feeling particularly talented today."
Kelvin laughed, a short, sharp sound. "I look forward to the banquet, Lady Priscilla. I suspect the North is about to become very, very interesting."
Priscilla didn't respond. She felt Alistair's eyes on her back again—always watching, always measuring. She walked into the shadows of the cathedral, her mind already calculating the layout of the halls, the positions of the guards, and the exact amount of force it would take to bring the gilded ceiling down on anyone who dared to cross her.
The Summit had begun, and the North had brought more than just steam. It had brought a storm.