Sunlight slipped past the curtains, painting the room in soft amber. Sheets were tangled, the air warm with the remnants of night. I shifted slightly, careful not to wake Carys, whose curls spilled across the pillow, damp from the rain and clinging to her cheek.
Her eyelashes fluttered; a low murmur, half-laugh, half-breath, escaped her lips. I smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, light enough not to startle, heavy enough to remember.
The world beyond these walls—Westminster, the Bay, Glasgow—didn't exist here. Not yet. Here, there were only whispered promises, shared warmth, and the quiet intimacy of proximity.
Carys reached for the blanket, her eyes opening slowly. "Morning," she murmured, voice husky, the edges of sleep still in it.
"Morning," I replied, letting my hand linger a moment longer than necessary.
Carys stirred first, stretching with a quiet sigh. The blanket slipped, baring the curve of her shoulder, the faint marks I'd left there in my hunger. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand, I found myself stealing a quick, deliberate glance, taking in the curve of her back, the damp leggings clinging to her skin, the soft green of her underwear just visible beneath the fabric, her half-unbuttoned blouse failing to hide the straps on her shoulders. My breath caught—brief, unguarded—before I looked away. But not before she caught me. Angry pout, cheeks pink.
"Alwenna..." she said softly, not quite rebuke, not quite invitation.
I smiled. "Just appreciating the view. Madam First Minister."
She rolled her eyes, reaching for her skirt. "Stop calling me that."
"Why? You'll hear it enough today."
With our morning banter concluded, we fell into a silent choreography: her reaching for her sweater, me untangling the sheets. The room smelled faintly of rain, faintly of coffee yet to be brewed... faintly of us. There was a private kind of electricity in it, a rhythm we'd already started to understand.
I rose first, gathering my clothes from the chair, pulling on a blazer over the soft fabric of my blouse, and pausing to glance back. Carys was standing by the window now, leggings damp from the drizzle, scarf loose around her neck, lost in the cityscape.
"Tea?" she asked, voice lighter now, teasing.
"Please," I said, though my mind already ticked forward. Alerts on my phone flashed silently across the screen: messages from aides, a note from Essex, a reminder that the streets were still alive with chants, protests not yet settled.
I tucked the phone into my blazer pocket, fingers brushing the cold metal, a small anchor to the world outside. This warmth, this fleeting morning, was mine. The city, the politics, the dissent—they could wait. For now, there was Carys, and there was quiet.
She turned to me, smile slow and knowing, leaning back against the counter. My gaze lingered again on the curve of her neck, the damp curls framing it, the faint shimmer of green at her eyes—deep, alive, catching the morning light.
A moment stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words, teasing touches, and quiet laughter. Then, the mundane intruded—tea clinking on the counter, a breeze from the slightly open window.
But even as I pulled on my blazer fully, straightening it over my shoulders, I carried that moment with me, a small rebellion of warmth and intimacy against the rising tide beyond these walls...
The television flickered on, breaking the moment. A BBC anchor's clipped tones carried across the flat.
"International reaction continues to grow after Prime Minister Elen Ross compared Palestine's right to freedom with that of Ukraine. The White House declined to comment directly, though one senior official described the remarks as 'unhelpful.' Israel's Prime Minister has called them—quote—'an insult to democracy.' Meanwhile, markets in London opened lower this morning as uncertainty continues to spread…"
Carys glanced back at me, brows raised. "You knew this storm was coming, didn't you?"
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "Storms are inevitable. Better to choose where they land."
"You've just compared Palestine to Ukraine. That's not a storm, Alwenna—that's a hurricane."
I didn't answer.
Instead, I reached for her wrist, pulling her gently back toward the bed. She resisted only for a heartbeat before leaning down, kissing me once, quick and warm.
"Later today...," she whispered. "I'm sworn in."
The words lingered in the air, soft but unshakable. And I thought, hurricanes destroy—but they also clear a path.
Cardiff, Senedd
The Senedd chamber smelled faintly of polish and old wood, as though even the walls knew they were about to be remade. My palms tingled as I adjusted the sleeve of my jacket, the oath of office written out neatly on the table before me. Fifty-eight percent. Fifty-eight. The number drummed in my chest like a second heartbeat. I should have been calm. I'd rehearsed the words in front of mirrors, whispered them into pillows, spoken them into the steam of the shower until they no longer felt foreign. But the moment was heavier than rehearsal could ever prepare me for.
The Presiding Officer's voice carried through the chamber. "Carys Morgan, do you swear to serve the people of Wales faithfully, in the office of First Minister?"
My throat tightened. I caught sight of her then — Alwenna, standing among the invited dignitaries. Composed, every inch the Prime Minister. But her eyes — her eyes softened when they found me, steady, anchoring. For a heartbeat, the noise of the chamber fell away.
"I swear," I said, voice clear. "With all that I am."
Applause swelled, breaking the tension. The sound of it seemed to ripple outward, through the glass walls of the chamber, into the crowds gathered in Cardiff Bay. Flags waved in the distance; the red dragon danced above the heads of thousands.
As I turned to sign the oath, Alwenna was already moving forward. Cameras flashed, catching her hand on mine, her whispered congratulations. "Well done, Madam First Minister," she said, lips curved in that mischievous way that only I would notice.
Heat rose in my cheeks. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?"
"Not a chance," she murmured.
The cameras caught none of that, only two leaders shaking hands — history recorded in light and glass. But in that private space between her words and mine, I felt the truth of it: today was not just mine. It was ours.
And yet, as I looked out at the chamber again, at the rows of stern faces — Labour's hollow fury, the Conservatives' disdain, Reform's simmering discontent — I knew this was more than celebration. This was the start of something greater, and infinitely more dangerous.
I tightened my grip on the pen, signing my name in firm strokes. First Minister of Wales. A title carved into history.
Later, in the quiet of my new office, the weight of it pressed closer. Papers already covered the desk, aides whispered in the hall, and the rain streaked across the windowpanes as if the world wanted reminding that ceremony was only a prelude.
My phone buzzed, skittering against the polished oak. Fiona MacLeod's name lit the screen.
I answered, pulse quickening. "Fiona?"
Her voice carried warmth, though wrapped in steel. "Congratulations, Carys. Cardiff Bay looked magnificent. The people, the flags, the victory—it's electric. Scotland is watching."
Pride welled in my chest, but I tempered it, forcing calm into my tone. "Thank you, Fiona. We owe it to them. To the people."
"Then let's think ahead," Fiona pressed. "Momentum is everything. If Wales moves, Scotland can follow—carefully, deliberately. Coordination will matter."
I felt Alwenna's hand brush mine, subtle, grounding. She hadn't spoken yet, but her presence was steady beside me.
I covered the microphone. "You should hear this."
Fiona continued once Alwenna leaned close. "There's talk of meeting. Somewhere discreet. Ramsey, perhaps?"
My brows rose. "Ramsey?"
"The Isle of Man," Fiona clarified. "Neutral ground. Quiet. Strategic."
I glanced at Alwenna. Her expression was unreadable, but I caught the faintest glint in her eyes. "Keep the channels open," she said into the phone, her voice measured. "But don't overpromise. Alignment, not entanglement."
Fiona chuckled softly. "Wise as ever, Elen. Then Ramsey it is. We'll iron out the details soon."
The call ended, leaving only the hum of rain against glass and the thrum of my own heartbeat. I looked at Alwenna, at the shadow of the Senedd tower reflected in the window.
History had shifted today — but already, the next steps loomed.
Ramsey, Isle of Man
The ferry had been discreet, the cars unmarked, the route chosen to avoid attention. By the time we gathered in the oak-paneled hall on the Isle of Man, the air itself seemed charged with secrecy. Ramsey — quiet, windswept, forgotten — had become the axis of something new.
The leaders sat around the long table, the storm outside pressing faintly against the windows. Fiona MacLeod was the first to break the silence. Composed as ever, her voice carried an edge of triumph. "Scotland has already moved ahead. Militias — trained, disciplined, loyal. Covert, yes, but ready. What you propose, Elen… we're already living it."
Carys leaned forward slightly beside me, though I could sense the tension in her shoulders. "And you'd train Welsh units as well?"
Fiona nodded once. "Welsh, Cornish, Manx. Quietly. On Scottish soil. We've done it before."
Thomas Penrose tapped his fingers against the table, his tone measured, but there was a glimmer in his eye that betrayed calculation. "Cornwall has been shifting for years. Language courses, NGOs, cultural funding. I always wondered who was keeping them afloat." His gaze flicked toward me. "Now I know."
I let the truth sit in the room. I had funded language schools, arts grants, grants that thinly veiled other support. Culture softened hearts; hearts made recruits easier to find. It was unsentimental, efficient. "Culture lays the ground," I said, "and stewardship chooses harvest time."
Across from me, Moira Callow — her Manx accent sharp, deliberate — frowned. "You ask much of us. The Isle is not a stepping stone for someone else's agenda. Autonomy is not bargaining currency."
Her words were not a question. They were a demand—one that deserved more than rhetoric. She wasn't easily fooled by grand ideals. She wanted guarantees, structures, a legal architecture that would survive the smoke.
I watched her, measuring. There was something raw and useful in her stubbornness. It was the sort of thing you could either crush or bend into an asset.
"You're right," I said, and kept my voice slow, precise. "Autonomy must be substantive. It's not charity. It's consequence. We will build legal frameworks, immediate reforms—fiscal control, cultural sovereignty, a recognized provisional parliament. But understand this: those guarantees will be conditional on participation."
Moira's eyebrows rose. "Conditional how?"
I did not offer technicalities. I offered leverage. "On capacity and cooperation. On us moving as one body. On not leaving the others to fight alone. If you demand reforms and then step away when the first shot is fired, your people will be given a gift—only to receive chaos in return. If you stand with us, your reforms are fast-tracked; your autonomy will be impossible for London to roll back."
She inhaled, slow and deep, the policy wonk's instinct wrestling with the tribal leader's caution. "And if I refuse?"
I let the silence answer. I imagined the cashflow that underpinned the island—tourism, small industries, invisible contracts. I imagined redirecting political capital. I imagined alliances reshaped.
"I prefer to build," I went on, softer now, because there is always a finer blade to gentle persuasion. "But I will not be stalled by fear. We will offer you the framework and the means to secure it. We will not let you become a bargaining chip because someone needed to hedge their pride."
The storm rattled the shutters then, as if punctuating the moment.
For a heartbeat, the room was still. Each leader weighed the risk, the weight of history pressing like stone. Fiona's eyes glittered, approving. Thomas's hand found his chin; the pretense of theatricality fell away—he was a man of opportunity, and opportunity smelled like certainty.
Moira scanned each of us in turn, and when she finally spoke it was the sound of a woman making peace with danger. "Reforms first," she said. "I accept negotiated autonomy, provided I see draft frameworks within a week, and a guarantee of enforcement mechanisms."
"Within a week," I agreed. "Drafts, oversight, and—most importantly—reciprocity. You will have men and women trained to protect your shores and your institutions, under your command, accountable to your provisional structures."
She exhaled, small and decisive. "One week for the drafts. The Isle of Man will stand with you—on those terms."
Fiona let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Thomas folded his hands together, satisfied. Colin Quirk unclipped his badge and set it on the table—a small ceremonial gesture that somehow felt like a pledge.
I leaned back, letting the storm outside clap along with the agreement. I spoke once more, steady and final.
"The time to strike is now."
The room took that in. It was not a cheerable slogan; it was an order, a commitment, a promise and a threat all braided together. And as rain hammered the windows and the island held its breath, each of those leaders felt the shape of the future we had just chosen.
Westminster, London
The office smelled faintly of cheap bourbon and Fairfax liked it that way. It reminded him of control, of having a world condensed into a room where every line of sight and every word had weight.
He swirled the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight. Nigel had been a bloody fool. Perfectly set up to collapse under pressure. And collapse he did. Elen had orchestrated it with a kind of cruel precision, a scalpel where most would have swung an axe. The press ate it up. Reform's image shredded. Fairfax clenched his jaw. He had given that party his loyalty, only to watch someone else—someone younger, someone audacious—take the victory.
Not again. Not him.
He pulled a folder from the drawer, the edges worn, the documents inside painstakingly annotated. Reform's dissenters, the ones simmering in the shadows, the ones who had never forgiven the party for letting Elen slide in as if the rules didn't apply—he had them mapped. Each whisper, each rumor, each loyalty fracture documented.
It wasn't just about removing her from the leadership; it was about claiming the prize she had stolen from the party—and from him. Prime Minister of Britain. That was where he belonged. Not some ceremonial title, not some applause for audacity. Power was a tangible thing. It had shape. It had teeth. And he would take it. Britain needed him.
He drained the glass. The amber burned a trail down his throat, a reminder of the patience he had cultivated. And patience was power, just as much as fire. Tomorrow, he would call the dissenters. Not publicly. Not yet. But the framework was ready. Reform was fractured; the public's attention distracted by Plaid, by Celtic maneuverings, by scandals far away from the heart of Westminster. Perfect.
Fairfax rose, the lamplight catching in his eyes. Ambition never slept. And neither would he.
Cardiff, Carys' Flat
The city hummed beneath us, lights spilling across the wet streets of Cardiff, muted by the evening drizzle. From the apartment window, the Bay looked smaller, quieter than it had all day, though I knew the tide of celebration still pulsed beyond the glass.
Carys sat cross-legged on the couch, scarf loose around her neck, fingers tracing the rim of a teacup. I stepped inside, the soft click of the door marking the return to private space—away from cameras, ceremonies, and the roar of the crowd.
"You survived your first day as First Minister," I said, setting down my bag, letting the weight of my shoulders ease slightly.
She smirked, exhaustion flickering in her eyes. "Barely. Westminster's already calling. Fiona rang. Scotland wants a follow-up on coordination."
I sank onto the couch beside her, careful to let our shoulders brush. The warmth of proximity grounded me. "We'll manage them. Every piece, every move… we have it."
A long silence stretched, filled only by the faint hiss of rain against the window. I watched her lean back, head against the cushion, eyes narrowing in thought.
"Do you ever worry?" she asked.
"About what?" I replied, noting the subtle tremor in her tone.
"Everything. The streets, the dissenters, the militias… you've orchestrated this, but it's a hurricane out there. And we're in the eye."
I reached for her hand, curling my fingers around hers. "I've always preferred to be in the storm than outside it. We're not just surviving this, Carys. We're shaping it."
She exhaled without realizing it, squeezing my hand back. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Probably make me tea every morning," I teased. She laughed, soft and honest.
"Maybe," she admitted. Then her expression sobered. "The others—they'll be moving soon. Cornwall, Manx, Scotland… you've seen how they think. How they plan."
I hardened my gaze. "Let them plan. I've built the chessboard. They'll move when I allow it."
She studied me, awe and trust flickering in her eyes. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against my shoulder. "Promise me we'll keep each other in the eye of the storm."
"I promise," I whispered, fingers brushing through her damp curls, lingering, grounding us both—a quiet rebellion against the world outside.
The rain tapped the window again, soft and persistent, echoing the rhythm of the life we'd carved together in the midst of chaos.
I pulled her closer, tilting her face toward mine. Our lips met, brief at first, testing, warm. Then deeper, claiming the space between us, a kiss that held triumph, trust, and a silent promise that no storm—political or otherwise—could touch us here.
For a heartbeat, the city, the politics, the dissent—all of it—could wait.