The council had concluded. The echo of spoken words still vibrated between the stone columns when, one by one, those present rose from their seats. The bows toward the throne were solemn, measured, laden with the weight of what had just been witnessed. Only three figures remained motionless beside King Edward IV: William Hastings, his closest counselor; Sir Geoffrey Hawke, captain of the Royal Guard; and Lord Richard Neville, the treasurer, whose gaze still distilled the silent venom of received humiliation.
The others advanced toward the exit when the doors opened with a ceremonious creak.
Sir Cedric Ravenshaw, admiral of the fleet, stopped at the threshold. He made a deep bow, right hand over his heart.
"Your Majesty," he said in a grave, respectful voice, "with your gracious permission, Prince Alasdair MacGregor of Scotland requests immediate audience. He comes accompanied by Commander Broderick McTavish and Master of War Hamish Drummond, along with an escort of fifteen men from the north."
Edward IV barely nodded, with a gesture that betrayed no emotion.
"Let them pass."
Cedric bowed again.
"With your permission, Your Majesty, I withdraw."
"Granted."
The admiral stepped aside, allowing passage for those departing. The nobles and ambassadors leaving the hall exchanged gestures of courtesy with the newcomers: brief bows, evaluating looks, the silent brush of two political currents crossing in the same river.
The first to cross the threshold was Broderick McTavish, commander of the Royal Guard of Scotland.
His reputation preceded him like a storm. He wore chainmail beneath a dark blue tabard with the rampant lion emblem. A scar crossed his left eyebrow and another descended from jaw to neck, witnesses to battles not all survived to tell. His eyes, the color of steel under rain, swept the hall with the precision of a predator evaluating foreign territory.
Passing beside Jon Malverne—who walked in the opposite direction toward the exit—Broderick felt something.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't intimidation.
It was something different.
As if two wolves crossed on a narrow path, each measuring the other without needing to growl. Jon's presence was dense, almost tangible, as if the air around him weighed more than anywhere else. Broderick didn't retreat, didn't hesitate, but his eyes narrowed barely. This man is not ordinary, he thought.
Behind him entered Alasdair MacGregor, prince of Scotland.
He walked with the serene confidence of one who knows his mere presence alters a room's balance. Tall, with upright bearing and measured movements, he wore an emerald green velvet doublet with silver embroidery that caught the torchlight like flashes of stars. His dark brown hair fell in waves to his shoulders, framing a face of aristocratic features: high cheekbones, firm jaw, green eyes that shone with a mixture of cunning and calculated charm. A wolf-fur-lined cloak rested on his shoulders, announcing that the north had arrived in the south.
And then, just as he crossed the threshold, his gaze drifted to the left.
Elena de Trastámara was leaving at that precise instant.
The world stopped.
Alasdair saw her—truly saw her—and something inside him stirred forcefully. She walked with lethal grace, with the indomitable elegance of a queen who had never needed a crown to be recognized as such. Her dark skin glowed under the hall's dying light. Dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes—those light brown eyes almost yellow that seemed to contain liquid light—looked ahead with a determination that admitted no distraction.
She was beautiful. But not with the fragile, ornamental beauty of court ladies. She was beautiful as a storm is: wild, dangerous, impossible to ignore. There was something about her that was both warrior and woman, steel and silk, contained fury and undeniable grace.
Alasdair was trapped.
His steps slowed barely, his lips parted with the intention of pronouncing some word—any word—that could justify stopping, that could create a bridge between them.
But Elena didn't flinch.
She passed beside him without looking, without hesitating, as if the prince of Scotland were as relevant as another column in the hall. Her gaze remained fixed on the exit, on the horizon only she saw.
And Alasdair, accustomed to being the center of attention in any room he entered, felt for the first time in a long time the sharp sting of disdain.
Behind the prince entered Hamish Drummond, master of war and chancellor of Scotland.
Of lighter build than Broderick, he imposed not through strength but through the sharpness of his mind. He dressed in black on black, more shadow than man, and his dark eyes moved restlessly, evaluating, calculating, measuring every detail like a chess master anticipating ten moves ahead.
And when Elena passed before him, Hamish turned.
His gaze followed her—not with the prince's romantic fascination, but with something darker, more predatory. He observed her as one evaluates a valuable piece in the market, as one studies territory one wishes to conquer. There was vulgar hunger in those eyes. Hunger disguised as diplomatic interest.
BANG!
King Edward IV's staff striking the floor resonated like thunder.
Hamish stopped dead, turning his head toward the throne. The king looked at him with an expression that needed no words: Mind your eyes, or you'll lose them.
The Scottish chancellor bowed his head in a hasty reverence, recomposing his countenance with the speed of one accustomed to walking the edge of the political blade.
The doors closed with a deep echo.
The Scottish soldiers who had accompanied the prince deployed with military efficiency: two remained flanking the hall doors, four others patrolled the outer corridor, and the rest distributed themselves between the palace and the ship docked at Westminster's wharves. They were hard men, weathered by the north's unforgiving climate, with dark armor and tartans rolled over their shoulders like banners of unwavering identity.
Edward IV stood.
Prince Alasdair advanced to the center of the hall and both bowed in mutual reverence: the king first, then the prince. The others present—Broderick, Hamish, Hastings, Hawke—did the same. The ritual of respect had been fulfilled.
The king turned toward Richard Neville.
"Lord Neville," he said in a dry voice, "withdraw."
The treasurer blinked, surprised.
"Your Majesty?" he asked, tone oscillating between confusion and barely contained indignation. "For what reason should I…?"
"I said withdraw."
The king's voice cut the air like an axe. There was no space for reply. No margin for negotiation.
Neville clenched his jaw, feeling how humiliation—one more to add to the day's collection—burned his chest like acid. He made a forced bow, too quick to be respectful, too tense to be sincere.
"As you command, Your Majesty," he murmured.
He turned and walked toward the exit with rigid steps. But inside, something dark twisted and grew: venom distilled drop by drop, resentment accumulating like dry gunpowder awaiting the spark.
I won't forget this, he thought. None of these slights will go unanswered.
When the door closed behind him, King Edward sat again. The others did the same.
Broderick took a seat inside the hall.
Despite the place having been meticulously cleaned after the previous council's massacre, he perceived something in the air. His eyes swept the white marble, the columns, the shadows accumulating in corners. He had spent too many years on battlefields, had seen too much death, not to recognize the phantom smell of recently spilled blood.
There was violence here, he thought. And not long ago.
⸻
Hamish Drummond, with the professional calm of an experienced diplomat, leaned slightly forward.
"Your Majesty," he began, voice measured and clear, "we come from the north as emissaries of goodwill. King Robert III of Scotland sends his most cordial greetings and his deepest respect toward your person and toward your kingdom."
King Edward looked at him fixedly, with an expression that revealed nothing. But inside, irritation still burned—fueled by Neville's insolence, by Hamish's lascivious look toward Elena, by the accumulated weight of a day that had begun with blood and seemed determined to end with betrayal.
"Four winters have passed," the king said, voice grave and controlled, "since we crossed swords in the War of the Red Petals. Since our men's blood stained the border fields and alliances shattered like glass under the hammer. Relations between our nations remain tense, fragile, sustained barely by the mutual threat of devastation."
He paused, fixing his gaze on Hamish.
"So I ask you, Master Drummond: of what friendship do you speak?"
Hamish didn't flinch. He was a man accustomed to navigating turbulent waters.
"I understand your words, Your Majesty, and I understand your caution. I don't come to deny the past, but to propose a future. We bring an offer that could seal not only peace between our nations, but forge an alliance that benefits both kingdoms for generations to come."
Edward leaned back on his throne, narrowing his eyes.
"Speak, then."
Hamish nodded.
"The conflict between England, Castile, and Aragon has crossed borders. The echoes of your battles resonate beyond the English Channel. There is talk of massacres ordered by England and of murdered kings."
William Hastings, the king's counselor, exchanged a quick glance with Edward.
"Just days ago," Hamish continued, "Aragon sent emissaries to Edinburgh. They offered King Robert a formal alliance: disputed territories would be ceded to Scotland, favorable trade treaties would be signed, and coffers filled with gold would be delivered as a show of good faith."
King Edward tensed imperceptibly. Hastings tightened his fingers on his chair's arm.
Aragon trying to isolate me. Aragon seeking to surround me with enemies.
The strategy was clear as water: if Scotland joined Aragon, England would be trapped between two fronts. The north would burn while the south bled. It would be the end.
"But—" Hamish raised a hand, as if stopping a thought before it escaped, "King Robert rejected the offer. Without hesitation. Without negotiation."
Silence fell over the hall like snow on a cemetery.
"Why?" Edward asked, with genuine curiosity.
It was Prince Alasdair who responded.
He stood with the elegance of one trained from the cradle to move in political scenarios. His voice was clear, firm, laden with conviction.
"Because my father, King Robert III, believes from the deepest part of his heart that peace between Scotland and England is not only possible… it's necessary. We are brother peoples, Your Majesty. We share the same island, the same history of blood and glory. If we must go to war, let it be as allies, not as enemies. Let it be to forge a common future, not to destroy each other."
Edward studied the prince with the gaze of a chess player evaluating a piece whose value isn't yet clear.
"Such generosity," he said slowly, "must have a price."
Alasdair smiled. It wasn't a cynical or calculating smile. It was the smile of someone who has waited his entire life to pronounce the words he was about to say.
"The price, Your Majesty… is union."
He paused, letting the words settle like dust after an explosion.
"The union of two crowns. My father proposes to seal the alliance with the most sacred bond between kingdoms: marriage."
Another silence. Denser. Heavier.
"Between England and Scotland. Between your daughter, Princess Elizabeth of York, and myself."
The air in the hall changed.
William Hastings went rigid. Geoffrey Hawke crossed his arms, his expression inscrutable but his eyes alert. Edward IV remained motionless, gaze fixed on the Scottish prince as if he could read his soul.
Hastings was the first to speak.
"Forgive my frankness, Your Highness," he said, tone diplomatic but firm, "but an alliance forged at the edge of a war proves excessively convenient for Scotland. We cannot rush decisions of this magnitude. We're speaking of Princess Elizabeth. Of His Majesty the king's daughter."
Alasdair looked at him without blinking.
"It's not haste, my lord. It's pragmatism. When Aragon's swords and fire touch your shores—and they will—you'll need our strength. You'll need our men, our fortresses, our supply routes. And by then, it may be too late to negotiate."
Hamish Drummond added, voice soft but laden with implication:
"Recent rumors suggest France might join Aragon. Against you, Your Majesty."
Edward felt the weight of those words press his chest. France. If France entered the conflict on Aragon's side, England would be completely isolated. Surrounded. Doomed.
The king kept silent for a moment that seemed eternal. Then he spoke in a grave voice, controlled, laden with authority.
"Every alliance has a cost higher than what's announced at the negotiating table. I will neither accept nor reject this proposal until I hear my full Council and consult with the queen. England does not sell its daughters as diplomatic shields. It's a matter requiring maximum care, maximum deliberation."
Hastings stood abruptly.
"But Your Majesty…"
"Take your seat, Lord Hastings."
The king's voice was a whip.
Hastings hesitated, mouth still open.
"Your Majesty, we must consider…"
"I said sit down!"
The shout resonated between the stone columns like unleashed thunder. Hastings dropped into his chair, pale, heart hammering in his chest.
Edward took a deep breath, recovering composure with visible effort. He turned toward the Scots.
"I cannot reject an alliance at this time. Nor accept it blindly. I will think on your offer. I will discuss it with those who must be consulted. And I will give you my answer at the opportune moment."
He paused.
"Meanwhile, feel free to be our guests here at Westminster Palace. You will be assigned quarters worthy of your rank."
Hamish Drummond nodded with a slow, elegant bow.
"That is all we ask, Your Majesty: consideration. Our prince will remain as guest of honor until receiving your answer."
The king gestured. The doors opened. Air flowed again.
Alasdair, Broderick, and Hamish bowed in a final reverence and left the hall with measured steps, leaving behind the echo of a proposal that could change the destiny of two kingdoms.
When the doors closed again, Edward IV sank into his throne, covering his face with one hand.
"Damn it," he murmured.
⸻
Somewhere in the palace, at the same time
Elizabeth of York lay on her bed, breathing labored, body burning.
Her chamber's curtains were closed, blocking the evening light. The servants had been dismissed hours ago. She was alone.
Completely alone.
And that solitude was both relief and sentence.
The corset oppressed her like a cage of silk and bone, but it wasn't that pressure suffocating her. It was something else. Something that had grown inside her like a poisonous vine, coiling around her thoughts, her sanity, until she could no longer distinguish where the princess ended and where the woman began.
The woman.
That part of her no one saw. That no one should see.
She closed her eyes tightly, but that only made things worse.
Because when she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Jon Malverne.
His serene, impenetrable face. Those golden-brown eyes that seemed to contain centuries of silence and secrets no confessor could absolve. The way he moved—lethal, precise, as if every muscle in his body responded to a symphony only he could hear. Blood splashing on the council hall's white marble. Swords falling. Mutilated hands. And Jon's absolute calm in the midst of chaos.
As if violence were his natural state.
As if death danced around him like an obedient lover.
My God.
Elizabeth clenched her fists against the silk sheets, sinking them into the fabric until her knuckles turned white. Her breathing became irregular, labored. The heat she felt didn't come from the fireplace's fire or approaching summer.
It came from within.
From a dark and forbidden place she had learned to ignore all her life. A place where princesses shouldn't venture. Where the king's daughters weren't permitted to exist.
But there it was.
Burning.
Consuming her.
What's happening to me?
It wasn't love. It couldn't be. Love was what she felt for her father, for her sisters. Love was soft, warm, comforting.
This was fire and storm.
This was wanting to touch something she knew would burn her. Wanting to approach something dangerous simply to feel alive. To know that beneath all the layers of silk, beneath all the lessons of protocol and decorum, beneath all the diplomatic smiles and perfect genuflections…
…she was still human.
A woman of flesh and blood.
With desires no prayer had managed to extinguish.
She brought a trembling hand to her neck, feeling her own accelerated pulse beneath her fingers. She imagined they were his hands. His. Those hands she had seen hold a sword so naturally, that had executed three men without hesitating a single second.
How would they feel against my skin?
The question pierced her like lightning.
And with it came shame.
Burning. Overwhelming.
"I'm a damn fool," she whispered to her room's void, voice broken. "A stupid princess playing with fantasies that will never…"
But she didn't finish the sentence.
Because the truth was too cruel to say aloud.
Jon Malverne didn't even know she existed beyond being the king's daughter. To him, Elizabeth was just another piece on the political board. A pretty face in a portrait. A name in a marriage treaty not yet formalized.
He didn't see her.
Not as she saw him.
And that destroyed her in ways she didn't understand.
She turned in bed, burying her face in the pillows, trying to stifle the moan of frustration threatening to escape. Her hands moved almost of their own accord, seeking relief for a tension no prayer had managed to dissipate.
In the darkness of her chamber, Elizabeth of York—princess of England, daughter of King Edward IV, living symbol of purity and virtue—allowed herself to be just a woman.
A woman tormented by desires she couldn't confess.
A woman whose heart beat for someone who would never belong to her.
And while night enveloped the palace like a black velvet cloak, there was only one name on her lips. A name she repeated like a blasphemous prayer, like a forbidden spell.
Jon.