The English Channel roared beneath an overcast sky, heavy and gray, as if wanting to warn those who ventured upon its waters. Each wave struck the ship's wood with a thunder that recalled the drums of war, and the masts, raised like ancient spears, creaked under the wind, marking an inexorable rhythm.
Elena de Trastámara walked across the deck draped in a crimson cloak, Castilian embroidery barely visible under the dying light of dawn. Her gait was not that of an ordinary lady; each step resonated like a secret oath, an echo of intertwined destinies. The official mission obliged her to carry messages of truce to the English throne, but in her heart burned another flame: an invisible thread binding her to a man who existed only in legends and whispers.
Ashwick… Jon Malverne… the peasant who defied kings…
The ship advanced through mist and foam, and each of Elena's breaths seemed to absorb the memory of that name. It wasn't curiosity: it was recognition. A memory from another life pulsing through her veins.
⸻
Westminster's great hall was a scene of measured opulence, where torchlight reflected off velvets, furs, and gold chains, and tapestries of past conquests seemed to watch each visitor with silent eyes. At the center, upon a throne carved from oak, sat Edward IV of York, firm and proud, with the authority of one who had survived betrayals, wars, and conspiracies.
To his right, his daughter Elizabeth of York stood upright as a marble statue. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the torchlight, and her copper hair, so voluminous it seemed to capture every ray of sun that didn't exist in that hall, fell over her shoulders in soft cascades. Her green eyes, penetrating and attentive, evaluated every gesture, every movement, every word, with the calculating curiosity of one who understands the world moves in nuances and silences. Each breath the young woman took, each slight tilt of her head, was an act of observation and judgment, and Jon Malverne, even without knowing it, was already under her scrutiny.
On the other side, Jon stood upright, his campaign cloak still marked by Ashwick's mud and blood. His golden-brown eyes were cold, impenetrable, and his rigid posture radiated an authority no title had granted him. It wasn't arrogance: it was presence. And there, in the midst of court, no one could ignore him.
"They say an entire army broke before your men," Edward commented in a deep voice. "That Ashwick's blood still stains the memory of Castile and Aragon."
"We only defended what was ours, Your Majesty," Jon responded firmly, his tone as dry as tempered steel.
Silence fell like a cloak over the hall. Jon sought neither applause nor glory. He existed, and that was enough.
When Elena and her entourage crossed the hall, the nobles' murmuring mixed with the echo of footsteps, a rhythm that seemed to anticipate the collision of two worlds. Elena walked upright, each gesture measured, each gaze fixed ahead, but within her a soft tremor announced that Jon's presence was not merely political: it was magnetic, inevitable.
Elizabeth, watching from the side, felt all the air around condense. Her green gaze did not leave Jon. Fascination grew like a contained fire: the man who seemed to exist outside of time, who maintained calm before kings and nobles, who had stopped armies… was an enigma she couldn't ignore. Her heart pounded with a new, strange rhythm, and her fingers barely trembled as they rested on her dress's embroidery. Every detail of Jon, from his firm jaw to the silent determination in his eyes, trapped her in a mixture of admiration and something she couldn't name.
The silence broke with Edward IV's voice:
"Jon Malverne… are you willing to surrender your head for peace?"
The man remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the king's, firm, unwavering.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he responded, in a tone that brooked no discussion. "If that serves to save lives, I will not hesitate."
A murmur ran through the court, quickly silenced by the king's authority. Jon did not kneel out of vanity or ambition; he did so out of duty, by an invisible code few could understand.
A herald deposited a parchment before the throne. Edward read it carefully, and his expression became solemn:
"The crown of Aragon requests your head as an offering. They claim this will end the war."
Elena held her breath. Her face, until then serene and diplomatic, tensed. Jon's head? That was not part of the agreements she had brought from Castile. The parchment's letters seemed to ignite before her eyes, and within her she felt a tremor that was not just surprise, but something deeper: a stab in her chest, an ancient premonition she couldn't understand. The king's voice continued, but the words dissolved between her heartbeats.
Jon remained firm, unperturbed, even in the face of the threat.
"England does not negotiate with cowards," Edward finally said, tearing the parchment with a firm gesture. "Jon Malverne, in the name of the crown, I name you knight of England. From today you shall be Sir Jon Malverne, defender of the realm and its people."
Jon fell to his knees, his oath resonating like steel striking stone:
"I swear my sword, my loyalty, and my life to the King of England."
Elizabeth watched him, fascinated. Each word, each movement, each look from Jon pierced her with the intensity of a forbidden discovery. Her admiration grew in silence, mixed with a barely perceptible desire to understand this man who seemed to defy history itself.
Jon rose, and Lord Alaric of Wessex placed a firm hand on his shoulder:
"Come, Sir Jon. England has plans for you."
And then it happened. As he turned, his eyes met Elena's, for the first time consciously and completely. There were no words, no titles, no political expectations. Only them.
Elena saw Jon's unshakeable calm, the contained strength that could move armies, and something within her chest trembled. He saw in her the same determination, the same fire he had seen in forgotten memories, in visions from another time, and a tremor of silent recognition ran through his body.
The world disappeared around them: the tapestries, the nobles, the torches, the court's murmuring. Only Jon and Elena remained. Their breaths intertwined without a word spoken, and an eternal instant enveloped them, as if time had stopped to pay them homage.
Then something changed.
An invisible pressure extended from Jon like a wave. It was pure energy, dense, almost tangible. The soldiers and knights of Castile's entourage—those who had accompanied Elena—felt the air become heavy, almost impossible to breathe. Those closest to the center of the hall instinctively began moving their hands to their sword hilts.
Arvel de Trastámara, Elena's younger brother, stepped forward half a pace, his gaze ignited by an impulse as primitive as fear. Steel scraped the scabbard with a sound that broke the silence.
Jon perceived it instantly. His instinct alerted him before reason, and in a single movement he drew his sword, turning with lethal precision.
But before he could advance, Elena saw it. In her mind, a fleeting image opened like lightning: she saw her brother, her guard, her people… fall one by one beneath Jon's fury. An impossible vision, a memory of the future.
"No!" she screamed, moving with inhuman speed.
She drew her two swords and interposed herself in his path just as Jon launched himself toward Arvel. The clash was brutal: the steel vibrated as if the entire world trembled beneath them. The impact was so powerful that one of Elena's swords flew from her hands, soaring through the air and embedding itself in the marble floor.
Jon, surprised for the first time, looked at her without expression, but with a faint gleam of astonishment in his eyes. How could she resist him?
Both retreated, tense, breathing hard. The silence surrounding them was so profound that the creak of tapestries could be heard under the air's vibration.
"Enough!" thundered King Edward's voice.
He struck the floor with his staff, and the sound resonated throughout the hall… but it was not a simple strike. It was a deep echo, a thunder that pierced Jon and Elena's minds simultaneously. Within them, they heard something different: a gunshot, dry, metallic, coming from a time yet to arrive.
Both looked at each other, confused, their hearts pounding hard, not knowing what that sound meant—a sound neither should know.
The oath, history, war, and destiny condensed in that look.
And in that precise moment, the certainty that their souls returned to find each other once more was engraved in eternity.