The aftermath of the spirit's destruction left the vault in a state of eerie, crystalline ruin. The freezing rain—the result of the mana-collapse—had coated the brass pipes in a layer of jagged rime. Priscilla stood amidst the frost, her breath blooming in white plumes, her fingers tracing the scorched barrel of her hand-cannon.
"Clean this up," she commanded Jax, her voice echoing with a cold, metallic resonance. "Collect every shard of that blue crystal. I want to analyze the lattice structure. If Lyra Zephyros can weave wind into a blade, I want to know the frequency of the weave."
Jax and the orphans scrambled into motion, their small shadows dancing against the frost-covered walls. They moved with the frantic energy of those who had seen a god bleed and realized the blood was just another chemical to be harvested.
Priscilla turned toward the darkened entrance of the sub-basement. She didn't raise her weapon this time. She simply stood her ground, the cooling-oil on her skin glistening like war paint.
"You're late, Kelvin," she said into the darkness. "The show is over, and the cleanup crew is already at work."
Kelvin Devereux stepped from the shadows of a heavy stone buttress. He was dressed in his full obsidian plate, the dark metal absorbing the flickering light of the electric bulbs. He stopped at the edge of the slush where the assassin had fallen, his eyes narrowing as he nudged a fragment of ice with his boot.
"A Zephyros Spirit-Assassin," Kelvin remarked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Sent by the High Priestess herself. These things are designed to bypass armor and bone alike. They don't leave survivors, Priscilla. And yet, here you are, smelling of sulfur and looking bored."
He looked up at the "Heart"—the massive turbine that was once again beginning to hum as the steam pressure stabilized. His gaze shifted to the electric wires snaking across the ceiling.
"My father thinks you're a blacksmith with a lucky streak," Kelvin said, stepping closer. "The East thinks you're a heretic who must be purged. But I see what this is. This isn't just a foundry. This is a siege. You're building a world beneath theirs, waiting for the foundations of the Holy See to rot so you can replace them with steel."
"The foundations are already rotting, Kelvin," Priscilla countered. She stepped into his space, her eyes locking onto his with a savage intensity. "I'm just providing the replacement parts. Your father wants a weapon. Lyra wants a miracle. I want an industry. I am building the capacity to produce a thousand of these hand-cannons. I am building the power to turn this entire valley into a furnace."
Kelvin reached out, his gauntleted hand hovering near the steam pipe. He could feel the vibration of the machine—the raw, mechanical heartbeat of the North. "A two-front war, then. The West wants to own you, and the East wants to erase you. You're standing in the center of a closing vise."
"Then I'll just have to make sure the vise is made of a lower-grade alloy than I am," Priscilla said, her lip curling into that sharp, baddie smirk. "What do you want, Kelvin? You didn't come down here into the soot just to give me a tactical update."
Kelvin's expression shifted, the predatory prince replaced by something more calculating. "The West's 'Obsidian Guard' is being moved to the upper plazas tomorrow. My father is preparing to 'protect' the Vane-Crest delegation from further Eastern aggression. It's an occupation in disguise. He wants to find your workshop."
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "I've diverted the patrol for tonight. But I can't keep them blind forever. You need a distraction. You need someone who can play the politics of the Upper See while you play the architect of the Lower."
"And the price?" Priscilla asked.
"I want a demonstration," Kelvin whispered. "Not of the big gun. Of the small one. Show me how a girl with no magic can shatter a spirit made of the wind. Show me the math, Priscilla."
Priscilla looked at the hand-cannon in her sheath, then back at the Prince. She reached out, her grease-stained fingers gripping the edge of his obsidian breastplate, pulling him slightly off-balance.
"The math is simple, Kelvin," she said, her voice a lethal silk. "Energy equals mass times velocity squared. If you want to see it again, you'll have to help me secure the Solis chemical shipment arriving at the South Gate tonight. If my powder runs dry, your 'protection' won't mean a thing."
Kelvin smiled—a dark, jagged thing. "The South Gate belongs to me tonight. Consider the chemicals delivered."
As he turned to leave, he stopped and looked back at the glowing bulb. "One more thing, Architect. Lyra Zephyros doesn't miss twice. The next thing she sends won't be made of wind. It'll be made of blood."
"Let her send it," Priscilla said, turning back to her machines. "I've always wanted to see if blood can be used as a lubricant for a piston."