The purge did not begin with a roar, but with a rhythmic, mechanical hum that vibrated through the floorboards of the Holy See. While the upper city slept in its gilded beds, the "Underworld" was wide awake.
Priscilla sat at a massive iron-topped table in the heart of her secret foundry, her fingers stained with graphite and grease. Beside her, Silas was cleaning a pair of silver-handled revolvers—Priscilla's latest "gifts" to him—with the bored elegance of a man polishing his silverware.
"The Holy See's 'Inquisition' has sent six observers into the Lower See tonight," Silas remarked, his eyes reflecting the blue flicker of the electric bulbs. "They aren't looking for heretics anymore, sister. They're looking for the 'Architect.' It seems your little display with the glowing heads has made the High Priest... nervous."
"Nervousness is the first step toward obsolescence," Priscilla replied, not looking up from her blueprints. "If they're looking for me, Silas, make sure they find exactly what I want them to see."
Silas grinned, a sharp, predatory expression. "I've already mapped their routes. They move through the sewers and the old bone-vaults. They think they're invisible. They forget that the 'Unseen' are my eyes now."
Priscilla stood up, pulling her heavy leather duster over her shoulders. "Then it's time for the cull. We can't have the High Priest knowing the exact coordinates of the steam-veins. If they tap into our pressure lines, the whole system collapses."
The siblings descended into the "Veins"—the network of service tunnels and drainage pipes that sat directly beneath the cathedral's nave. Here, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the damp rot of centuries.
They didn't move like nobles; they moved like hunters. Silas slipped into the shadows of a side-tunnel, his silver revolvers disappearing into his sleeves. Priscilla stayed in the center of the main artery, her hand-cannon holstered but ready.
Suddenly, three figures in white-and-gold robes emerged from the gloom. They carried censers that emitted a faint, magical glow—scrying tools designed to detect "unnatural" energy.
"The resonance is coming from here," the lead Inquisitor hissed, his voice echoing off the damp brick. "The girl... she's bled the sacred springs. We must report the—"
He never finished the sentence.
CRACK. CRACK.
Two shots rang out from the shadows. Silas hadn't even stepped into the light. The two trailing Inquisitors fell instantly, their white robes blooming with sudden, dark crimson.
The lead Inquisitor spun around, his scrying censer falling to the floor with a hollow clang. He saw Priscilla standing ten feet away, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.
"Heretic!" he screamed, reaching into his robes for a scroll of binding magic.
Priscilla didn't use her gun. She moved with the explosive speed she had perfected in the sandpits, closing the gap before he could unroll the parchment. she grabbed his wrist, the sound of snapping bone puncturing the silence, and drove him back against the cold, wet wall.
"You call me a heretic," Priscilla whispered, her face inches from his. "But look at your city. It's built on the backs of the starving, powered by myths that have been dead for a thousand years. I am the only thing in this valley that actually works."
She reached for the small, humming battery pack at her belt—the same technology she had used for the Iron-Hounds' heads. She pressed two copper filaments against the Inquisitor's temples.
"I'm not going to kill you yet," she said, her smile turning into something truly horrifying. "I'm going to use your nervous system as a relay. You're going to walk back to the High Priest, and you're going to tell him exactly what I want him to hear. And if you try to speak a word of the truth..."
She triggered a low-voltage pulse. The Inquisitor's body jerked violently, his eyes rolling back in his head as the blue light flickered behind his pupils.
"The electricity will fry your vocal cords before you can finish the first syllable," she finished coldly.
Silas stepped out of the shadows, holstering his guns. He looked at the twitching Inquisitor and then at his sister, his admiration deepening into something bordering on awe.
"You've turned the Inquisition into your own personal telegraph system. Mother was right... you really are the most dangerous thing the North has ever produced."
"Nature doesn't produce things like me, Silas," Priscilla said, stepping away as the "telegraphed" Inquisitor began to walk toward the surface in a mindless, mechanical trance. "We build ourselves. Now, let's finish the purge. I want the Lower See cleared of spies by sunrise. I have a factory to run."