The Grand Ballroom of the Holy See was a cathedral of light. Thousands of wax candles flickered in crystal chandeliers, reflecting off the polished marble floors and the shimmering jewels of the continental elite. To any other guest, it was a night of celebration. To Priscilla, it was a tactical battlefield where the terrain was made of silk and the ammunition was gossip.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in a gown of charcoal-grey silk that moved like liquid mercury. It was devoid of the lace and frills favored by the Southern ladies; instead, it featured a structured bodice reinforced with thin, flexible steel stays of her own design. Around her neck sat a choker of black iron and small, glowing amber stones.
"Try not to break anyone's arm tonight," Alistair whispered, appearing at her side. He looked sharp in his formal Vane-Crest uniform, though his eyes remained fixed on his sister's posture. "The High Priest is watching. And Kelvin Devereux has been staring at our entrance for the last ten minutes."
"Let him stare," Priscilla replied, her voice smooth and dangerous. "He's trying to figure out if I'm a threat or a trophy. I intend to provide him with an answer."
As she descended, the sea of nobles parted. The murmurs followed her like a wake.
"The Silent Mouse..."
"...did you see her eyes?"
"...that dress... is that metal?"
She reached the floor just as the orchestra began a slow, sweeping waltz. Before she could find a corner to observe from, a shadow fell over her. Kelvin Devereux stood there, his crimson-and-gold cape draped elegantly over one shoulder. He didn't ask; he simply extended a hand encased in a white silk glove.
"A dance, Lady Priscilla?" Kelvin's smile was a challenge. "Or does the Architect of the North only move when there's an engine to tilt?"
"I move when there is a purpose, Prince Kelvin," she said, placing her hand in his. Her grip was firm, lacking the soft, limp wrist of a traditional debutante.
They stepped onto the floor. Kelvin was a master dancer, his movements precise and dominating, intended to lead his partner into submission. Priscilla matched him move for move, her feet finding the rhythm with the same mechanical accuracy she used in her training pits.
"You're a mystery, Priscilla," Kelvin said, leaning in close as they spun. "My spies in Severa told me you were a ghost. A girl who hid in libraries and wept at the sight of a sword. Yet, on the road, you fought like a veteran of the Black Guard. And tonight, you look like you're calculating the weight of the chandeliers so you can drop them on us."
"I prefer to calculate the structural integrity of my enemies," Priscilla countered. She felt his hand tighten on her waist—a test of her reaction. She didn't flinch. "And your spies are outdated. Tell them to ask for a refund."
"Is that so?" Kelvin's eyes sparked. "Tell me, what does a girl with your... 'talents'... want with the Merchant Kings? My guards saw a hooded figure leaving the Spice Quarter last night. A figure with the same height and stride as you."
Priscilla's heart didn't skip a beat. She used the momentum of the turn to pull him slightly off-balance, regaining the lead in the dance for a split second. "I enjoy cooking, Prince. Surely the West allows a lady her hobbies?"
"Not when those hobbies smell like sulfur," Kelvin whispered.
Before she could respond, the music ended with a sharp crescendo. Kelvin bowed low, his eyes never leaving hers. "The Summit banquet is tomorrow. My father, the King, will be looking for a demonstration of Severa's new 'genius.' I suggest you make it a good one."
Priscilla watched him walk away. She felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck.
Across the room, Lyra Zephyros was watching her, clutching her crystal staff so hard her knuckles were white.
"He's right about the smell," Alistair said, stepping up behind her and handing her a glass of champagne. He sniffed the air near her sleeve. "Potassium nitrate. If you're planning on blowing up the cathedral, Priscilla, please give me five minutes to retrieve my medical journals."
"I'm not blowing up the cathedral, Alistair," she said, taking a sip of the wine. Her eyes scanned the room, noting the exits and the guard rotations once more. "I'm just making sure that when the North speaks tomorrow, everyone else has no choice but to listen."
She turned and walked toward the balconies, her mercury-colored skirts sweeping the floor. The "Silent Mouse" was gone. The "Pure Baddie" had arrived, and she had enough gunpowder in her pocket to rewrite the history of the world.
(End)