The journey to the Holy See of Veridia required crossing the Ever-Mist Hills , a treacherous stretch of land where the jagged borders of the four nations blurred into a gray, fog-choked labyrinth. The Vane-Crest caravan was a titan of iron and wood—six heavy carriages armored with thin steel plating, a testament to the North's industrial paranoia.
Priscilla sat in the lead carriage, opposite Alistair. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the mountain pass was the only sound for miles. Alistair was silent, his surgical tools laid out on a velvet tray as he cleaned them, a habit he fell into when his mind was churning.
"The Ever-Mist Hills are a blind spot for the Imperial Guard," Alistair said, not looking up from a silver scalpel. "The House of Zephyros from the East claims the wind here obeys their 'Old Magic.' Our scouts call it a geographical anomaly caused by the meeting of cold northern air and the southern heat."
"It's a pressure differential," Priscilla corrected flatly, staring out the window at the swirling white veil. "Nothing magical about physics, Alistair."
Suddenly, the carriage jerked. The horses screamed.
CRACK.
A massive trunk of an ancient oak tree, felled by a precise blast of kinetic energy, slammed onto the path, missing the lead horses by inches. The caravan ground to a violent halt.
"Bandits?" Alistair asked, his voice cool, though his hand drifted to a hidden compartment in his seat.
"No," Priscilla whispered, her eyes narrowing as she saw silhouettes emerging from the fog. "Mercenaries. Look at the armor—obsidian plating. These are Occitanian deserters from the West. They're looking for gold, or the technology we're carrying."
Outside, the air erupted with the sounds of steel on steel. The Vane-Crest guards were being overwhelmed. The mercenaries moved with a military precision that the Duke's house guards couldn't match.
"Stay here," Alistair commanded, reaching for a small glass vial of neurotoxin. "I will handle the ventilation. If I can aerosolize this—"
"You're too slow," Priscilla said.
She didn't wait. She kicked the carriage door open.
The cold mist rushed in, smelling of pine and damp earth. A mercenary, clad in dark obsidian-flecked mail, lunged toward the open door with a jagged short-sword.
Priscilla didn't flinch. She used the door's momentum, swinging it outward to catch the man's leading knee. There was a sickening crunch. As he buckled, she stepped out, grabbing his sword-arm and pivoting.
She threw him over her shoulder with the mechanical efficiency of a piston. He hit the rocky ground with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs. Before his comrades could react, Priscilla had stripped the short-sword from his grip.
"She's just a girl! Kill her!" a voice barked from the fog.
Three men charged. Priscilla didn't retreat. She dropped into a low crouch, her breath steady. In her mind, the world slowed down into a series of vectors and force-points.
The first attacker swung high. She slid under the blade, her lead foot hooking behind his heel while her palm slammed into his solar plexus. The force wasn't just strength; it was the perfect application of mass and velocity. He went down, gasping.
She spun, the stolen blade whistling through the air. She didn't use the edge—she used the flat of the blade to strike the second man's temple, then delivered a spinning back-kick that sent the third man flying back into the mist.
Alistair stood in the doorway of the carriage, the vial of toxin forgotten in his hand. He wasn't watching the battle; he was watching Priscilla's eyes. They weren't wide with adrenaline. They were cold, analytical, and entirely focused.
"Priscilla!" her father shouted from the second carriage, drawing his ceremonial sword.
"Stay back, Father!" she commanded, her voice ringing through the hills. "The perimeter is compromised. Hagar! Get the steam-pressure canisters from the luggage rack! Vent them now!"
The blacksmith, trembling but loyal, pulled the emergency release on the prototype engine they were transporting. A massive, blinding wall of high-pressure steam hissed outward, creating a secondary fog that blinded the mercenaries.
In the white-out, Priscilla was a ghost. The mercenaries only heard the sound of snapping bone and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the dirt.
When the steam finally cleared, ten mercenaries lay incapacitated on the road. Priscilla stood in the center, her hair slightly tousled, holding a blood-streaked obsidian dagger she hadn't started the fight with.
She turned to Alistair, who was now standing on the road, his notebook open.
"Well?" she asked, her voice steady. "Did you get the data you wanted, Brother?"
Alistair looked at the fallen men, then at his sister. He wrote three words in his book and closed it with a sharp snap.
Combat Instinct: Absolute.
"The North is no longer just exporting iron," Alistair said softly, a dark spark of curiosity in his eyes. "We've started exporting monsters."