Year 1475, late 15th century
Castile and Aragon sealed a dangerous alliance—more ambitious than wise. The pact united the two kingdoms against England, with a promise to consolidate power through marriage: Elena de Trastámara, daughter of the King of Castile, would be given to Prince Hernán de Montferrat, heir to Aragon.
The alliance was born as an oath of iron, but history would remember it as a bloody failure.
The first target was Ashwick, a small border town. Its walls, old and cracked, had withstood centuries of sieges. The kings expected a swift triumph, an immediate surrender. What they found was popular resistance—stubborn, desperate.
When the drums of war began to roar, Ashwick's bells answered with a funeral toll. The air soon filled with smoke, gunpowder, ash. Every alley became a slaughterhouse: women hurling boiling oil from windows, old men wielding rusted tools as weapons, children running through blood to carry water to the defenders. The entire town rose up.
Prince Hernán de Montferrat, barely twenty-one years old, revealed himself in all his cruelty. He rode through the streets on his warhorse, running through unarmed peasants, laughing at the fear in the eyes of the defenseless. Wherever he passed, old women lay with throats cut, children mutilated, fathers dragged by their horses' manes. His sword gleamed brighter with the blood of innocents than with that of soldiers.
Beside him, King Fernando de Montferrat, his father, rode with the arrogance of one who believes victory assured. His black steed reared imposingly, and his orders were as cold as his gaze.
But amidst the tide of blood, a young man emerged.
Jon Malverne, a nineteen-year-old peasant dressed in a moss-green tunic stained with mud, walked among bodies and flames. His face was serene, almost distant; his eyes, a light brown that bordered on gold, held a somber gaze. There was no fury or compassion in him, only the inexorable calm of one executing an inevitable purpose.
The thunder of hooves shattered the chaos: King Fernando was charging forward, with his son Hernán trampling corpses behind him. Dust rose in whirlwinds. Soldiers cleared the way.
Jon did not retreat.
He barely turned his face, as if that clamor were a minor detail. Time fractured. The horse's snort, the creaking of the saddle, the pounding of hooves… everything reached his ears like a distant echo.
The horse fell upon Jon like unleashed thunder. In a single flash of steel, the blade sliced through air and the front legs snapped with a dry crack, like branches burning in fire. The animal's bellow mixed with the soldiers' screams, and for an instant the entire field hung suspended in horror.
King Fernando was thrown to the ground, dazed, still futilely clutching the broken reins. Before the guards could react, Jon was already moving. With a precise slash, he severed both of the monarch's arms. The king's agonizing screams shook Ashwick's very walls; blood gushed in dark streams, soaking the earth as if the city itself demanded justice.
Prince Hernán reined his horse with a howl of horror.
The peasant in moss green stood before his mutilated father, eyes fixed on him. Somber, unfathomable, as if death itself gazed at him through that look.
Silence seized the field. Soldiers from Castile and Aragon, who seconds before had been killing each other, stood frozen. No one could believe that a nineteen-year-old boy, emerged from the town's depths, had reduced a king in mere moments.
Jon raised his sword one last time. He spoke no word. He sought no glory. With a clean, solemn movement, he pierced Fernando de Montferrat's throat. The monarch choked on his own blood, reduced to waste on the land he had sworn to conquer.
The alliance was broken before it was born.
The soldiers retreated, ashamed, defeated.
And on that day, upon the burning ruins of Ashwick, a name began to spread that would resonate across the three kingdoms:
Jon Malverne, the Scourge of Kings.
⸻
The field of Ashwick fell silent. Blood still steamed on the earth when the banners of Aragon and Castile fell. Without a king, without glory and without purpose, the allied armies retreated amid shame and confusion, leaving behind an open cemetery.
The news of the disaster did not stay in Ashwick.
It traveled with the speed of fear and astonishment, crossing villages, ports, and camps. Within weeks, all three kingdoms spoke the same name: the peasant in moss green who had executed a king.
Rumor became chronicle, and chronicle became warning. Finally, the story reached the ears of Edward IV of England. Intrigued by the magnitude of the deed and the somber calm of the boy who carried it out, the monarch sent emissaries with a single order.
Jon Malverne was summoned to London, to Westminster Palace, to appear before the English throne.
After the defeat at Ashwick, Prince Hernán de Montferrat and what remained of his entourage arrived in Castile alongside the allied monarch. The heralds opened the doors of the imposing Alcázar of Segovia, where King Juan II de Trastámara and his wife, Queen Beatriz de Trastámara, awaited.
The air inside the palace was as dense as the smoke of war. Torches illuminated tapestries embroidered with past deeds, while the echoes of military footsteps resonated like an omen of disgrace.
There, among the queen and the ladies of the court, stood Elena de Trastámara, daughter of the King and Queen of Castile.
Her beauty stood out even in the shadows: dark skin like sun-bathed earth, light brown eyes almost golden that seemed to contain a restrained fire, serene and firm lips. Elena's bearing was neither fragile nor compliant: her very posture revealed the spirit of a woman forged in discipline.
When she saw Hernán enter, her gaze hardened. There was no affection in her eyes, only displeasure and disdain. She knew of his cruelty in Ashwick, of the innocents who had fallen beneath his sword. And that commitment binding her to him seemed more a chain than a destiny.
King Juan spoke with solemn voice:
"Elena, there will be no peace within these walls. Ashwick's failure drags us to war. And you… you must march to the front."
Murmurs ran through the hall.
Everyone knew what that order meant. Elena was secretly feared and admired. In the chronicles of Castile she was called "The Dancer," not for fragility, but for the way she danced in combat: two swords in her hands traced circles of steel so swift they confused her adversaries, as if death itself moved with grace.
Elena lowered her head, and for a moment seemed to refuse.
"I do not wish to be part of this war stained with arrogance," she said, her voice firm and clear.
The silence was absolute.
But after a few seconds, her eyes rose, shining with a different gleam.
"I accept…" she whispered. "For one reason alone."
Everyone held their breath.
"I want to meet the peasant the three kingdoms speak of… Jon Malverne."
That single decision by Elena ignited a dark whirlwind in Hernán: rage, jealousy, hatred, and envy crowded his chest, each emotion striking like a hammer upon his wounded pride. The look he directed at Elena was loaded with silent venom, and every muscle in his body tensed as if the very floor of the Alcázar might give way beneath his contained fury.
The murmur still vibrated in the Alcázar's walls when Hernán stepped forward. His lips trembled with anger, his eyes burned like embers.
"Remember your place, Elena…" he said with a venom in his voice that froze the hall. "My betrothed, you should not speak of other men with such fervor. Your words… sound more fitting for a courtesan than a princess."
The silence became dense as stone.
King Juan of Castile advanced a step, his grave voice filling the hall like contained thunder:
"Watch your tongue, boy. Do not speak to my daughter that way. Before she is your betrothed, she is blood of my blood, and as long as I draw breath, no one will insult her with words."
Hernán's face contorted with hatred.
"I am the King of Aragon now!" he roared, his voice bouncing off tapestries and armor.
Juan did not lose his calm. His eyes narrowed with cold solemnity.
"And I am the King of Castile."
Elena, who until then had kept silent, stepped forward with a firm stride. Her voice cut the air like a blade of steel.
"Don't worry, Father. Don't waste your words on this idiot."
Tension crackled in the hall. Soldiers from both kingdoms tensed their hands on their weapon hilts, as if war could erupt in that very instant.
Hernán took a deep breath, attempting to regain control. His voice came out in a poisonous hiss:
"We must demand Jon Malverne's head. Only then will Aragon's honor be restored."
Elena raised her face, and her eyes shone with an indomitable gleam.
"Jon's head? Why? He only defended his city. If a head must be sent as apology, let it be one of ours…" she took a step toward Hernán, fixing him with a glacial stare. "I suggest it be yours."
The insult was like a dagger. Hernán, blinded by humiliation, raised his hand and delivered a brutal slap across Elena's face. The blow echoed like a whip in the hall.
Castilian guards lunged forward, Aragonese immediately drew their swords. Balance hung by a thread.
But before King Juan could utter a word, Elena moved. Her body danced as if wielding her two invisible swords. In the blink of an eye, her arm wrapped around Hernán's neck, twisting his body until he fell to his knees.
The prince struggled, but the pressure on his throat was implacable. Elena held him suffocating with the calm of an executioner who knows how to measure the instant to release the rope.
Her voice came out low, firm, frozen:
"If you touch me again, Aragon will need to find a new king."
The silence was absolute. Not one guard dared take another step.
Hernán's face turned purple. When Elena finally released him, he fell to the floor gasping, humiliation burning him more than lack of air.
The Princess of Castile remained upright, unmoved, like a statue forged in fire and steel.
And everyone in that hall understood that Elena de Trastámara was not a prize in a political marriage.
She was a queen in potential.
Elena held her gaze fixed on the defeated prince for one more instant, as if ensuring her words were engraved in his flesh and his pride. Then, without waiting for a response, she stood with the serenity of an uncrowned queen.
She turned around, and her voice, clear and resonant, cut through the hall like the toll of a war bell:
"Prepare my armor and my swords."
Silence shattered. Everyone present held their breath.
Elena advanced toward the hall's doors, upright, implacable, as if each step announced a destiny no one could stop. Without looking back, she added:
"We're going to England."
The torches seemed to brighten with the echo of her words. In that instant, Castile's soldiers understood that the war no longer belonged to kings or princes. It had passed into the hands of a woman whose name would resonate like thunder on battlefields.
Elena de Trastámara had spoken, and history would obey.
The clamor of torches, the murmur of soldiers, the heartbeat of war… everything shattered like glass under pressure. The Alcázar's walls dissolved into smoke, and that smoke burned in the lungs of a man who opened his eyes centuries later.
Only she remained a few seconds longer, standing with her swords, watching him from the mist as if time wanted to hold her. Then her figure also dissolved, slowly, like a memory that refuses to die.
The smoke kept floating, dense, burning in his lungs. And then it was no longer smoke from bonfires or war, but the harsh smoke of a cigarette in the shadows of a modern room.
John Becker opened his eyes with racing pulse, forehead pearled with sweat, and the memory of her still burning in his mind.
Miles away, at police headquarters, the tension could be cut with a knife.
Spotlights fell on maps and photographs pinned to the wall. Quick voices, agents' footsteps, the constant buzz of radios on. In the middle of it all, standing before the board, was Mia Hartmann. Forty-something years old, blonde, with straight hair to her shoulders, white skin, blue eyes as cold as an endless winter. Beautiful, yes, but hardened by loss and blood. Her daughter had been kidnapped fourteen years ago, torn from her arms at five. All that remained was emptiness, and since then she breathed to hunt the men who had opened that hole in her life.
"Our objective remains the same: capture the Ghost," Mia said, her voice so cold and cutting that no one dared interrupt her. "He is our only door to Damián Corvelli."
She leaned over the map, marking with her pen a circle around a series of photos and connections.
"Corvelli isn't just another mobster. He's the most dangerous criminal in organized crime in Europe. He's laundered money for decades, runs the continent's largest trafficking network, and has judges and politicians in his pocket. Until now, no one's been able to touch him."
Silence weighed on the room. Mia let her men feel it before continuing.
"If we catch the Ghost, we break his iron wall. And with that, we open the path to bring Corvelli down once and for all."
She turned the page of a file and pointed to another photograph.
"And there's another name you need to memorize: John Becker."
The officers looked up.
"In barely two years he's climbed like lightning through the criminal hierarchy. Contacts, resources, loyalties… he moves as if he were born for this. Becker is gaining too much power too fast. If he climbs one more rung, he could become Corvelli's second-in-command."
Murmurs ran through the room. Mia raised her gaze, implacable.
"The Ghost and Becker are our priorities. One is the key, the other is a threat. If they fall, Corvelli will have nowhere to hide."
Days later in a procedure, the night was ablaze with rain. In a narrow alley, where light barely touched the puddles, John Becker emerged from the shadows. He was a specter dressed in flesh. Mia aimed her pistol, steady. But he already had her in his sights. No one breathed.
"Captain… we're close. Tomorrow I'll finally infiltrate Corvelli's organization. And we'll discover who the Ghost is." His voice slid out, low, dry, like a blade at the throat.
A second of tension. The echo of rain on metal. Mia narrowed her eyes, and for the first time in years, smiled.
"Good work, agent," she said.
Then a shot broke the scene. A young, nervous policeman had pulled the trigger. Becker fled like smoke between buildings, leaving nothing but an echo in the air. Mia held her wounded arm, calmed the rookie, and with a frozen smile on her lips, murmured as she watched him disappear:
"Be very careful, John."
Morning came. The city awoke with sirens, horns, and engines. John Becker lit another cigarette, but couldn't silence the vision that struck him violently. A field in ruins. He and Elena, lying in the dirt, wrapped in blood, holding hands. Breath escaping like a final sigh.
"I promise that in another life I'll find you…" his broken voice murmured.
Elena, barely breathing, brought her forehead close to his.
"I trust you'll find me… I love you, Jon."
He looked at her, death already in his eyes.
"I love you, Elena…"
The vision shattered abruptly. John crushed the cigarette against the ashtray, rage rising through his veins.
"Why the hell have these memories haunted me since childhood?"
The next day, John Becker finally crossed through the doors of Damián Corvelli's criminal empire. The silence was absolute. Dozens of men, hardened in violence and blood, watched him as one watches a specter. He wasn't a newcomer; he was a living legend, a predator walking among them. And they all knew it.
Damián, the godfather, received him with a courteous, almost paternal smile. He wore an impeccable black suit, his gaze laden with respect and calculation.
"John… welcome to the family," he said in a deep voice. "I hope here you'll find a purpose worthy of your name."
With a slow gesture, the capo lit a cigar and exhaled the smoke as if tracing an invisible oath. Then he added:
"I want to introduce you to my best weapon. The pride of our organization. My daughter, Michelle Corvelli. The Ghost."
The entire room held its breath.
John turned his head, searching in the shadows. First he saw hands white as snow, delicate but firm, hands that seemed capable of wielding both caress and death.
Their gazes met and the world collapsed. The men's murmuring faded as if someone had ripped the air from the room. There was no mafia, no city, no present: only her. Elena.
The air became heavy, unreal. The men's murmuring faded.
Before him, standing with the bearing of an executioner and the grace of a queen, was Elena. Not Michelle. Not the Ghost. Elena de Trastámara. The same face that had pursued him in dreams, the same gaze he had sworn to find even in another life.
She recognized him too.
The impact pierced her like lightning, because until that moment she had believed those visions were delusions of her mind, invented memories. But now, looking at him, she knew the truth. The peasant in moss green stood before her again, in another time, with another name.
The memories of blood and fire, of promises made between death and love, burned in her eyes.
John felt the tremor run through his veins, and for the first time in a long while, he was afraid.
She took a step forward.
He barely breathed.
And in that instant, they both understood the impossible:
Returning souls do not forget.