Avalor rose from the land like a crown forged by careful hands.
Its white stone towers gleamed beneath the sun, catching light from every angle as if the kingdom itself wished to be seen. Rivers curved obediently around its walls, fields stretched in orderly abundance, and banners of deep blue and gold marked a realm both prosperous and feared. Avalor was not merely beautiful—it was powerful, and it knew it.
The history of Avalor was something that seemed to awe everyone whoever came across it. It was from a man, Reyes who had been a sophisticated fellow and an economic scholar. He'd originally been from Spain but during the dictatorship of General Francisco Franco he'd discovered a vast amount of inhabited land owned by the dictator and when the talk of democracy had begun taking place in 1975 after Franco's death he'd quietly attained the land and slowly grew a kingdom with monarchy as it's rule but spanish it's language. He'd always fancied the elegant ways the british queens paraded and yet was a true Spanish man so he became an authoritarian and clothed it with the monarchy lifestyle, keeping his lineage forever in place. He'd been a wise scholar with a heart of a lion and after defeating much external oppressions and colonialism he was able to build himself a kingdom, Avalor.
At the heart of this power sat the king, followed by the royal court, the military council, and beneath them the noble houses. Rank was everything in Avalor. Blood determined influence, and influence shaped the fate of the kingdom. Among these houses, two names stood above the rest: Fierro and Espada. They were names that had been in place as long as the Reyes, known to be Reyes most trusted Allies with the Fierros as the king's royal advisors and Ministers of Finance and the Espadas as the Prime Ministers and Generals of War.
House Fierro was iron not in cruelty, but in constancy. For generations, they had advised kings, stabilized treaties, and ensured the loyalty of the people. Their wealth was old, their honor older. To cross a Fierro was to lose trust across the realm.
House Espada, however, was sharper. They were strategists, generals, and tacticians. Where others ruled with law, the Espadas ruled with foresight. Their power lay not only in armies, but in anticipation—knowing what would happen before it did.
And so it was no surprise that Rosa Fierro and Álvaro Espada stood among the most privileged youths in Avalor. From birth, their futures had been written in ink stronger than choice. They were expected to lead, to serve, to obey tradition without question.
The Espada had two sons, heirs to the name. Chief Minister of State, Rt. Hon Esteban, only son of his father after single handedly killing his two elder brothers and marrying off his younger sister had two sons, Marco and Alvaro Espada. Marco had been disowned in his teenage years, his father had dimmed him unfit to be his son, not matching what was the standards and his libertine attitude. It was allowed for a man to be unloyal to one woman, it was in their nature to be philanderers but when he had no skill or personal achievement to back it up he was nothing more than a profligate, a male prostitute. And as such Marco almost didn't exist to the Espada family. He was unnamed, dead with no mention of his name. An insult to the family.
Alvaro his younger brother was the sole heir. He was a man in outstanding looks, openly reckless but with underlying calculation. He was a legendary swordsman and had been thought to be a strategist who attacked boldly but not stupidly. He was constantly living a life expected of him by his father with the perfect aura, the beyond standard line of achievements. With their mother dying before he could walk he'd never been allowed to show any weakness or even shed a tear. He was an eligible bachelor too with women flocking at his every side. His looks was something that couldn't go unnoticed.
He carried recklessness like a second skin, moving through the world with an ease that suggested impulse rather than caution and yet seemed to make you forget your own cares_ even though such impression was something much further from the truth than met the eye. His endless blue eyes was the most unsettling thing about him, wide and bright, yet unreadable and shook your very core as though seeing through your evey facade, holding promises of a storm beneath. He was the perfect bad guy, ruthless but with a seductive charm.
The Fierro's on the other hand had five sons and a daughter. Rey Fierro, the first son brought up in wisdom as the next special advisor. Gonzalo Fierro was more fists than brain, he was the chief of defense staff, Jefe del Estado Mayor de la Defensa, JEMAD. He answered to the Don Espada's in terms of rank. Leo Fierro, the middle son was the current Minister of Finance as to his family rights although informally answered to his father. Carlos Fierro was the quick to anger son with more noise than actual power. Then Hector Fierro, his mother's love, always engaged in the country's politics and a scholar of economics and the only real brotherly figure to Rosa even though he was almost never present. And then Rosa Fierro, meek, gentle, sweet, the perfect ladylike character, the perfect Queen or so they thought. She was ambitious, witty, knew when to play the character and played it darn well. She was pretty too but not that soft royalty pretty, those wild green eyes and black full curly hair beauty. She couldn't be subdued or undermined and never bowed to the expectations of what a woman should be. She proved herself, silently but without doubt.
This was two families.
Different.
The only similar thing was the cold unloving environment. The Fierro's had a family without love but with loyalty and understanding, with their mother as the only bond between them
The Espada lacked any motherly care and was ruthless and physical in training but had undying oaths of loyalty to each other.
Yet tradition had not accounted for friendship.
Steel rang sharply in the Fierro's training yard, a stone throw away from the main house but far enough to escape watchful eyes.
Rosa stepped back just in time, her blade catching Álvaro's with a clean, confident strike. The impact vibrated through her arms, but her smile never wavered.
"You're slower today," she teased. "Has all that Espada discipline finally tired you out?"
Álvaro scoffed, twisting his wrist and breaking contact before lunging again. "I was going easy on you. Wouldn't want House Fierro embarrassed before breakfast."
She laughed, parrying with ease. "Please. If I lose, I'll blame your form. If you lose, I'll blame your pride."
Their movements were fluid, practiced. They had trained together since childhood, long enough to know each other's rhythm, strengths, and habits. Rosa fought with precision and patience; Álvaro with force and instinct. Where his strikes were bold, hers were calculated.
Álvaro pressed forward, forcing her back two steps. "Admit it," he said, grinning, "you enjoy this more than court etiquette."
Rosa deflected another strike and leaned in as she replied mockingly, "Oh, tell me something that's less obvious."
With a final clash, Rosa twisted her blade just enough to knock his sword aside. Álvaro froze, then laughed as she tapped the flat of her blade against his shoulder.
"Victory. Now what's that saying about women being just as good as men," she declared laughing excitedly.
Álvaro bowed exaggeratedly. "Enjoy it while you can. One day, the kingdom will expect us to be far less reckless and a woman isn't exactly recognised in our society."
Rosa lowered her sword stabbing it into the ground, a smirk stretching on her pale pink lips, "Oh shut up. I'm going to prove them wrong and you'll eat our own words". Beyond the yard, the palace loomed—beautiful, powerful, and watching.
Neither of them noticed how closely fate was already listening.
Álvaro sheathed his sword, but his attention lingered on Rosa longer than courtesy required. There were a hundred things he wanted to say—none of them safe, all of them foolish. Instead, he offered her a familiar half-smile, the one he used whenever truth pressed too closely against his ribs.
"You always rush your final strike," he said lightly, though she had won cleanly. "One day it will cost you. A woman's strength is in her silent aura, her elegant grace. What has your home teacher been teaching you?"
Rosa wiped her blade with a cloth, brow furrowed in mock offense. "Or one day it will save me. You worry too much, you'll get wrinkles before you turn thirty. All that old woman teaches is thinks I know all too well, how women should be submissive and quiet. All trash." She tilted her head up in arrogant grace, her wild green eyes looking straight into his deep blue depths, "I'll prove exactly how powerful a woman can get. I'll show them."
Ofcourse you will, he thought proudly, but only nodded, "Let's get you home before the kingdom thinks I'm no longer eligible. I still enjoy the way the village girls and daughters of Minister go dreamy over me, throwing themselves at the slightest opportunity. It's deligtful the way they spread their legs even before I say so."
Rosa scrunched her nose in disgust, "Ew! You're simply a dumbass no girl should ever fall prey to. Like what do the see in you?!"
Alvaro smirked quite aware of his looks. He didn't look the prince at the damsel's aid. He looked like the seductive red flagged gangster, carefree, adventurous with an overbearing aura. Most especially his deep blue eyes with no ending, filled with mysteries that only seemed to draw you in and made your knees go weak at a single stare. He was the forbidden fruit every Eve wanted. Unfortunately the only one he wanted to see him seemed not to be an Eve. She was something much more.
He put an arm around her neck whispering in her ears, "They see the most handsome man and legendary swordsman in the whole of Avalor. They crave his attention, melt at his gaze but they can only wish while you have him right next to you.''
Rosa scoffed faking a gag, "I'd rather jump off a cliff or tie a boulder to my neck and dive into the deepest ocean. I only keep you around cause you keep the annoying pests away, not like you're not one of them." She smiled dreamily, "The only one I want making my knees go weak is Mateo. He's so pure and true, a man that adores a woman and sees her strength. That's a man!"
They walked with Alvaro's hand thrown carelessly but knowingly across her shoulder through the palace corridors, the echo of their boots softened by marble and silk banners. Álvaro adjusted his pace to match hers, as he always did. When her sleeve brushed his hand, his fingers twitched before discipline forced them still. He had learned long ago that love, like weakness, had no place in the open halls of Avalor.
Rosa spoke easily, unaware of the weight behind his silences. She spoke of books she wished to read, of court gatherings she found dull, of how Prince Mateo had smiled at her during the last council dinner. Álvaro listened, each word carefully stored, each mention of the prince striking quieter than a blade yet cutting deeper all the same.
When they reached the gates of House Fierro, the air itself seemed to straighten.
The Fierro estate stood severe and elegant, its ironwork gates bearing the family sigil. Servants bowed low as Rosa passed, her posture shifting subtly—shoulders drawn back, expression softened, voice carefully light. Álvaro noticed it immediately. He always did.
Inside the great hall waited Héctor and Carlos Fierro, her elder brothers. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in the muted authority of men raised to command. Their gazes flicked briefly to Álvaro—acknowledgment without warmth.
"Espada," Héctor said, inclining his head a fraction. They were not in uniform and Alvaro was on his territory so there was no need for titles.
"Fierro," Álvaro replied, matching the tone. Respect, not affection. Understanding, not welcome.
Carlos's eyes shifted to Rosa. "Father expects you at supper."
"Yes, brother," she answered dutifully, her voice gentler than it had been moments before, almost carefully naïve. "I'll not be late."
That was the extent of it. No embrace. No inquiry. In houses like theirs, love was considered unnecessary—dangerous, even. Loyalty sufficed. Duty replaced tenderness.
Álvaro followed Rosa through quieter corridors until they reached her reading room, a small sanctuary hidden behind shelves and heavy curtains. The door closed, sealing them away from expectation.
Rosa exhaled at once, shoulders relaxing. "Saints," she muttered. "If Carlos looks at me like that one more time, I'll start apologizing for breathing."
Álvaro laughed softly, the sound freer than he ever allowed himself beyond these walls. "You should have seen your face," he said. "All wide eyes and careful words. If I didn't know you, I'd think you believed your own act."
She frowned. "Act?"
He leaned against the table, arms crossing easily. "Rosa Fierro, innocent daughter of iron. You wear it well. Almost convincing."
She huffed. "I do not pretend."
"You do," he said gently. "Just not with me."
The words lingered between them, heavier than he intended. Rosa waved a hand dismissively and moved toward her bookshelves. "You imagine too much."
Perhaps. Or perhaps he imagined too little.
Álvaro watched her trace the spines of books, watched the way she came alive in solitude—brilliant, curious, unguarded. This was the Rosa he loved, though he never named it, not even to himself. Loving her was like holding a blade by its edge: possible, but only if one accepted the pain.
"You should be careful," he said instead. "One day, you won't be able to hide who you are."
She smiled over her shoulder. "And one day, you'll stop worrying over me and maybe even settle down."
He smiled back, knowing neither of them spoke the truth.
Beyond the walls of House Fierro, the kingdom continued its steady breathing—unaware that loyalty was already bending, that love was already unbalanced, and that the first quiet fractures had begun.