Alistair Vane-Crest didn't look like a prince; he looked like a man haunted by a ghost he couldn't exhume. He adjusted his spectacles, his eyes bloodshot, and stared at the header of his latest entry: Subject: P. Vane-Crest | Event: The Veridia Rupture.
• Neurological Analysis:
The transition is no longer a mere personality shift; it is a total neural overhaul. During the "Table-Flip" event, I monitored the Subject's pupillary dilation and muscular tension. There was zero cortical hesitation.
In a standard human, the act of assaulting a high-ranking relative in a room full of armed sovereigns would trigger a massive cortisol spike—the 'fight or flight' response. Priscilla's heart rate, however, appeared to remain in a state of 'flow.' She didn't strike out of anger; she struck with the cold, calculated precision of a guillotine.
Alistair paused, his hand trembling slightly. He remembered the way she had looked atop that table—the golden light in her eyes wasn't madness. It was clarity.
• Physical Biomechanics:
The leverage she applied to the forty-foot mahogany table is physically impossible for a girl of her previous muscle mass. Analysis suggests she didn't lift with her arms, but used a kinetic chain starting from the posterior deltoids and shifting through the core. It was a master-level application of torque.
• Conclusion:
I am no longer certain this is my sister. If the soul is a series of electrical impulses, then Priscilla's 'hardware' has been hijacked by a superior 'software.' She possesses the tactical mind of a general and the mechanical soul of a god.
• Risk Level:
Catastrophic. If she views the family as a 'broken gear,' as she called Malakor, she will not hesitate to discard us once we are no longer functional to her design.
He closed the book with a sharp thud. He looked at his surgical kit, the silver scalpels gleaming. For the first time in his life, the world's greatest neurologist felt like a child holding a wooden stick against a dragon.
———
The Obsidian Shadow (The West's Private Chambers)
Across the cathedral, in a room draped in red silk and obsidian crests, King Valerius Devereux stood by the window, staring at the distant, smoking ruins of the watchtower. Beside him, Kelvin Devereux leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing on his lips.
"She flipped the Titan's Board," the King said, his voice a low growl. "Forty feet of solid mahogany. She treated it like a plaything."
"It wasn't just the strength, Father," Kelvin said, his eyes dark with fascination. "It was the look in her eyes. She didn't care about the consequences. She knew that once that 'iron tube' roared, the laws of the world would change. She wasn't asking for a seat at the table. She was telling us that the table belongs to her."
"The North is no longer a mine," the King muttered, turning to his generals. "It is a forge for something we cannot defend against. Find out who taught her that math. Find out where she hides the 'Devil's Dust.' If we cannot annex Severa, we must marry into it. Kelvin, you will stay close to her."
"With pleasure," Kelvin whispered.
—————
The Whispering Wind (The East's Private Chambers)
In the spire of the Zephyros delegation, the air was cold and smelled of ozone. Lyra Zephyros sat on a floating silk cushion, her pale eyes fixed on the empty space in front of her. Her silver-haired advisors stood in a semi-circle, their faces pale.
"The wind is screaming," Lyra said, her voice trembling. "The thing she used... it didn't use mana. It didn't ask the spirits for permission. It tore through the veil by force. It was a 'void' made of iron and fire."
"The spy we sent hasn't returned, My Lady," an advisor whispered. "The North has her. If Priscilla Vane-Crest can silence a Wind-Dancer and shatter a tower a mile away, our 'Ancient Magic' is no longer a deterrent."
Lyra gripped her crystal staff until the knuckles turned white. "She didn't just flip a table; she flipped the hierarchy of existence. If the North can manufacture power in a tube, then the gods have truly abandoned us. We must find the 'glitch' in her soul before she turns that iron mouth toward the Whispering Peaks."
—————
The Merchant's Greed (The South's Private Chambers)
In the spice-scented rooms of the Solis delegation, Caspian Valerius was laughing. He poured a glass of amber-colored wine and toasted the empty air.
"A girl who flips tables and shoots mountains," Caspian chuckled. "And to think, I almost charged her double for the sulfur. The West is terrified. The East is praying. And I? I'm going to be the richest man in history because I'm the only one who has the chemicals she needs."
He looked at the blueprint Priscilla had given him—the steam-powered pump. He realized now it was just a crumb from her table.
"She's a baddie," Caspian grinned. "A pure, unadulterated baddie. And I want to see just how much of this world she's going to burn."