The day had exhausted the kingdom.
The council with its spilled blood, the Scottish prince's arrival with his marriage proposal, the hours afterward where every word in Westminster weighed like stone. When the sun sank behind the walls, leaving elongated shadows over the tapestries, exhaustion settled in every corner.
But the soldiers didn't sleep.
In the castle's military wing, separated from the noble halls by stone corridors and oak doors, the knights' dining hall buzzed with its own life. Freshly baked bread, roasted meat, cheap wine. Torches projecting light over faces weathered by campaigns, hands marked by sword grips, laughter that sounded like metal against metal.
A dozen men drank and conversed. Wine flowed generously. Voices rose. The world, for a moment, seemed simpler.
And then the doors opened.
The silence didn't fall abruptly. It was gradual. Conversations extinguished one after another, laughter died, and mugs remained suspended halfway to lips.
Because Prince Alasdair MacGregor of Scotland had just entered, followed by Broderick McTavish, commander of the Scottish Royal Guard.
Alasdair didn't walk with arrogance. He didn't need to. He wore the same informal elegance he had shown before the king—dark green doublet, wolf-fur cloak over his shoulders. His presence didn't feel invasive. It felt curious.
His green eyes swept the room, searching for something. Or someone.
And he found her.
At the back, at a secluded table, sat Elena de Trastámara and her brother Arvel.
Elena held a wine mug with both hands, elbows resting on the table. Her posture was relaxed but alert, comfortable but ready to move in an instant. She didn't belong to ballrooms. She belonged here, among warriors.
Arvel laughed at something he'd just said, face reddened by wine. He was younger than his sister, less tempered, but there was the same contained fierceness in him.
Alasdair crossed the room with measured steps. Broderick walked half a step behind, evaluating every face, every exit, every potential threat.
When they reached the table, Alasdair inclined his head.
"Princess Elena," he said, the Scottish accent softening the consonants. "Prince Arvel. Good evening."
Elena looked up. Her light brown eyes—almost golden under the torchlight—evaluated him with diplomatic courtesy.
"Your Highness," she responded. "Commander McTavish."
Broderick nodded silently.
Alasdair smiled. It wasn't a calculated smile. It was genuine, almost shy.
"Might we sit with you?" he asked. "The royal halls are too formal for my taste. And I've been told the wine here is more honest."
Elena exchanged a quick glance with Arvel. Her brother shrugged.
"Of course, Your Highness," Elena said, indicating the empty seats. "The wine is terrible, but the company compensates."
Alasdair laughed briefly.
"Then we're in good company."
They sat. Broderick took the seat that allowed him to see the door and windows. Alasdair settled across from Elena, hands resting on the table, open, no visible weapons.
The conversation began with formalities: the climate in Scotland compared to Castile, differences between wines, complaints about court protocols. Nothing deep. Nothing dangerous.
But Alasdair couldn't take his eyes off Elena.
It wasn't just her beauty. It was the way she moved, as if each gesture were part of a dance only she knew. The way she spoke, with measured words but laden with meaning. The way she existed, occupying space without apologizing.
And then the doors opened again.
This time the silence was immediate. Absolute.
Sir Alaric of Wessex entered first. But it wasn't he who captured all eyes.
It was the man walking beside him.
Jon Malverne.
He wore simple clothes—moss-green wool tunic, dark cloak, worn boots—but there was something undeniable in his bearing. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't deliberate intimidation.
It was presence.
The soldiers looked at him with reverence mixed with something close to fear.
They murmured among themselves:
"It's him…"
"The Scourge of Kings…"
"Enrique de Trastámara's son…"
"Killed a king with his own hands…"
"He's barely nineteen…"
Alaric swept the room with his gaze. His eyes met Alasdair's. Recognition. A shared memory.
Alasdair raised a hand in greeting and invitation.
Alaric nodded and headed toward the back table, Jon following half a step behind.
And then Elena saw him.
Jon Malverne. The peasant who had killed a king. The bastard of three kingdoms' most legendary warrior.
And he was walking directly toward her.
Elena tensed. Not from fear. From anticipation. From nervousness. From a vulnerability she hated feeling because she had never felt anything like this before.
Her invisible armor—built battle after battle, insult after insult—cracked barely. A small fissure. Almost imperceptible.
But Alasdair noticed.
He observed how Elena's shoulders tensed. How her fingers gripped the mug more tightly. How her eyes barely averted, unable to hold the gaze when Jon approached.
Interesting, the Scottish prince thought, feeling something dark twist in his chest.
Alaric reached the table first. He greeted Alasdair with the familiarity of two men who had seen each other in negotiations after the end of the War of the Red Petals four years ago.
"Sir Alaric," Alasdair said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Nor did I expect to find the prince of Scotland drinking cheap wine with soldiers," Alaric responded with a dry smile. "Times change."
"For the better, I hope."
Alaric gestured toward Jon.
"Allow me to introduce Sir Jon Malverne."
The silence at the table became dense.
Alasdair stood, eyes shining with genuine excitement.
"Jon Malverne?" he repeated. "The Scourge of Kings? It's quite an honor to finally meet you."
Jon stopped, surprised. He bowed in a subtle but respectful reverence.
"Please, Your Highness," he said, voice deep and controlled. "The honor is mine."
There was no flattery in his words. No falseness. Only genuine respect.
Alasdair extended his hand, ignoring protocol.
"I've heard fascinating stories about you, Sir Jon."
Jon shook his hand firmly, without smiling but without looking away.
"Stories always exaggerate, Your Highness. I only did what I had to do. Take care of my people."
"But not just any man would have dared to do it, much less been able to," Broderick interjected. "That's the difference."
A brief silence fell as everyone took their seats. Jon ended up directly across from Elena, separated by less than two meters of worn wood.
Their gazes met.
And the world stopped.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no celestial music or divine rays of light. It was something more subtle. More devastating.
It was recognition.
Elena felt heat rise up her neck, tingeing her cheeks pink. She looked away first, heart pounding against her ribs.
Jon observed her for another instant before diverting his eyes to his mug. But something inside him had stirred.
Broderick broke the moment.
"Sir Jon," he said, "there are rumors circulating through the castle. Rumors that you're Enrique de Trastámara's son."
The entire table tensed.
Jon nodded slowly.
"The rumors are true."
Broderick smiled barely.
"Then the Scourge of Kings and the Dancer are cousins."
He turned his head toward Elena.
She blinked, processing. Her mind had been so busy trying not to look at Jon that she'd barely registered the words.
"I…" she began, voice higher than intended. "I didn't know."
Jon looked at her directly for the first time since he'd sat down.
"Neither did I," he said. "But my father spoke to me once about his disciple. He said she was almost as good as me. Maybe better." He paused. "He said she used two swords. That she was ambidextrous. I suppose that was you."
Elena felt something explode in her chest. As if all the emotions contained for years—the loneliness of being the only woman warrior, the constant doubt, the desperate need for validation—compressed into a single point and then exploded outward.
Her hand moved without permission. She slapped the table with her open palm, making the mugs tremble and wine splash on the wood.
"Really?" she exclaimed, eyes shining. "He said that about me?"
Jon barely startled, eyes opening a fraction. He didn't expect that reaction. Not from her. Not from the woman who had faced armies without flinching, who had beheaded an ambassador without hesitating.
And yet, there she was. Vulnerable. Almost childlike in her joy.
Elena realized immediately. Heat rose up her face. Shame struck her.
"Sorry," she murmured, lowering her gaze. "I got carried away. It's just… I didn't know my uncle Enrique thought that of me."
Her hands moved by instinct, taking a lock of dark hair and placing it behind her ear.
Jon observed her with attention he couldn't disguise. That gesture. That specific movement.
He had seen it before.
Not here. Not now.
In another place. In another time.
Arvel laughed.
"Don't be nervous, Elena," he said with a mocking smile.
Elena lifted her head abruptly, eyes blazing.
"What are you talking about?" she snapped, tone defensive. "I'm not nervous."
"Whenever you're nervous you tuck your hair behind your ear," Arvel responded. "You've done it since you were a child."
Elena felt the world collapse around her.
She pulled her legs together under the table, lowered her head until her chin almost touched her chest, and placed her hands between her knees.
Jon noticed everything.
Every detail. Every movement. Every subtle change in her posture.
Because in that instant, Elena de Trastámara—the Dancer, the warrior feared in three kingdoms—wasn't any of those things.
She was just a nervous woman before someone who mattered to her in ways she didn't understand.
Alasdair MacGregor observed the scene without missing a detail.
He saw how Elena had become nervous the moment Jon appeared. He saw how Jon looked at her with attention that went beyond courtesy. He saw the invisible tension crackling between them.
The conversation drifted to other topics. Past battles. Military strategies. Warrior legends. Broderick told stories of the Highlands. Alaric spoke of the War of the Red Petals.
But Jon barely participated. He responded when asked, nodded when appropriate, but his mind was elsewhere.
It was on Elena's gesture of placing her hair behind her ear.
It was on the way she had slapped the table with childlike joy.
It was on the vulnerability he had seen in her eyes.
⸻
Finally, when conversations began to repeat themselves and the wine had done its work, Jon stood.
"With your permission," he said, with a brief reverence, "I must retire. It's been a long day."
Alaric nodded. Broderick raised his mug. Alasdair smiled politely. Arvel muttered something about fatigue being for the weak.
But Elena said nothing.
She just watched him. Observed him stand, adjust his cloak over his shoulders, turn toward the door.
And she felt a stab of disappointment so sharp it almost hurt physically.
Because deep down she had wanted him to stay.
She had wanted to talk to him. Get to know him. Discover if what she felt was real.
But he was leaving.
And she couldn't do anything to stop him without seeming desperate.
So she kept silent and watched him leave.
⸻
Jon walked through Westminster's corridors. Torches projected long shadows. The castle was silent.
He turned down a corridor that would lead him to the knights' quarters, lost in thoughts he couldn't organize.
And then he saw her.
Elizabeth of York walked in the opposite direction, hurried steps making her dress whisper against the floor.
Jon stopped immediately, stepping aside. She was the princess. The king's daughter. She deserved respect and space.
He began to bow.
Elizabeth felt her entire body ignite. Heat rose up her neck, tinted her cheeks, burned her ears.
Her heart pounded her chest so hard she thought it might burst.
And before she could think, before she could stop herself…
…she moved.
She ducked her head abruptly, unable to hold that gaze that disarmed her. She accelerated her pace, almost running, breathing labored.
And when she passed beside him, something inside her broke.
It wasn't a decision. It was impulse. Instinct. Desperation.
Her hands shot toward him.
Jon had no time to react.
Elizabeth's fingers closed around his waist. Without raising her head, without looking in his eyes, face burning, she pushed him against the stone wall urgently.
Jon's back hit the wall.
Air escaped him in a gasp of surprise.
And then Elizabeth raised her head.
Her green eyes—bright, desperate—fixed on his.
Inside, shame devoured her. What am I doing? Why can't I stop? Her mind screamed that this was wrong, that she was the princess of England, that this wasn't proper for her. But her body wouldn't obey. She couldn't control herself. She didn't know what to do with herself. She only knew she needed to be near him, even if it mortified her to tears.
Jon felt his mind go completely blank.
But before he could process what was happening, Elizabeth spoke.
Her voice came out broken, trembling.
"Don't say anything," she whispered, hands still gripping his waist, body pressed against his. "Please. Just… just let me…"
And Jon Malverne, the Scourge of Kings, the man who had killed a king without blinking, remained completely motionless.
Because he had no idea what to do.