London
The chamber smelled of old wood and tension. Less than twenty-four hours since the state of emergency had been declared, and already the opposition MPs circled me like hawks. Their eyes didn't just question me — they accused me of betraying the United Kingdom itself.
"Prime Minister Ross," Oliver Kane, leader of the Labour Party, rose with a voice like a whip, "how do you justify ignoring the rule of law while coordinating with separatist movements in Scotland and Wales?"
I straightened, letting my posture do the work my pulse threatened to betray. "The rule of law is exactly what I am upholding. Public safety, national security, and stability across the UK are my responsibility. Everything else is secondary to that."
A low murmur rippled across the benches. Doubt. Disbelief. Condemnation. I pressed forward before the sound could grow teeth.
Fairfax stood, face crimson with fury. "The state of emergency is unacceptable. It reads like a naked consolidation of power by a government that narrowly survived two motions of no confidence — surviving, I remind this chamber, only by scraping support from separatist parties."
I let the accusation hang a moment, then struck. "Two failed confidence votes, yes — but Fairfax seems to forget that the public placed their confidence elsewhere. Perhaps he should be more concerned with why."
Gasps. A few scattered jeers. Reform dissenters shifted uncomfortably, while even Labour and Tory benches stifled chuckles. Fairfax's attempt at power looked pitiful under the chamber's lights.
"We are facing coordinated unrest," I said, each word balanced on a knife's edge. "And I will act decisively to protect our nation. But let me be clear: I will not act against regions. We act for all citizens. The integrity of the United Kingdom is intact — and it will remain so."
For now, that was enough. For now.
Edinburgh (Fiona POV)
The cold wind cut across the parade grounds outside the castle, snapping banners and rattling bones alike. I stood beside Carys, Moira, Áine, and, impossibly, Elen. The cameras for the televised summit flickered red as the Prime Minister of the UK addressed us, yet the real attention belonged to the men and women arrayed in formation below.
"It is with great concern that I am present here today, in light of the separatist movements that threaten to fracture the United Kingdom," Elen began, her words careful, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed her. "This Union has stood proud for hundreds of years—and it will continue to do so. I ask you all to please show restraint. The government is willing to work with each regional leader to ensure that demands for greater cultural autonomy and higher representation in Westminster are considered."
"Wales will not bow to Westminster's demands," Carys' voice rang steel from beside me. "We have been oppressed by London rule for nearly a millennium, and historically, repression worsened after Owain Glyndŵr's rebellion was crushed in cold blood. We demand equality—or we will push forward for independence."
My turn. Alba gu bràth.
"Scotland was an independent kingdom until 1707," I said, my words sharp, cutting through the wind. "When we entered the Union, we were promised equal status. Instead, our tongue was suppressed, our culture assimilated. This ends now. Scotland has been England's partner in crime for too long. We demand equality—on our terms. Should Westminster fail to comply, secession is inevitable, as reflected in the will of the Scottish people for over a decade."
"Northern Ireland demands a referendum for unification with our mother country, Ireland," Áine said, voice curt, measured. "Sinn Féin's victory in the latest elections reflects the strong will of the Northern Irish people to reunite the island under Dublin rule."
The performance was over. We stepped outside, dispersing through the marble halls of the castle, each lost in our own thoughts. From a distance, I spotted Thomas Penrose, seething as BBC reporters circled him.
"She said she'll deal with the small nations later. Cornwall will not stand for it—our cultural revival and popular support have surged in recent years. We demand recognition."
I couldn't help the quiet chuckle that escaped me. Elen played her cards well. Every move calculated, every slight delayed just enough to let the ripple grow. The little nations would feel the sting soon enough—and we would all watch from the edges, ready.
I checked my phone, opened the WhatsApp group, and typed: "Meet me at the training base." With a quick glance at the castle, I stepped into my Volvo.
The city streets slipped past under slick tires, rain-slicked cobblestones gleaming under streetlamps. I left the bustle of Edinburgh behind, winding through quiet service roads and overgrown hedgerows, the mist curling around the car like smoke. Each turn brought me closer to the hidden base, further from the world above.
Finally, the treeline broke, revealing the training grounds. Tents and temporary structures formed neat rows. Figures moved with disciplined precision, a mix of soldiers and volunteers. From the shadows, I spotted them all—Carys, Elen, Moira, Áine, and Penrose—watching as closely as I was.
Carys' jaw was tight, her hands fisted at her sides, eyes scanning every movement. Moira, unreadable, assessed quietly. Áine's lips pressed in a line, her gaze unwavering. Penrose muttered under his breath, irritation barely contained.
Elen stood slightly apart, notebook in hand, scribbling notes that would become appointments, orders, movements. She didn't speak—not yet—but her presence anchored the group.
Subtle glances passed among us. Trust was thin, but here, in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, it was being forged. My chest puffed with pride as I led them through the military base. Carys and Elen were practically fangirling over the Welsh units.
"These lads are unreal," Carys breathed, her eyes shining. "You didn't tell me we had this many trained already!"
Elen laughed, elbowing her lightly. "I might've… exaggerated slightly last week. But hey—when did Wales ever have this big of an army? Never. Muhahaha."
Penrose scrutinized his Cornish cadets. Moira's smug expression betrayed approval of the rigid Manx training. Áine just observed, lost in thought, before turning to Elen.
"You weren't taking the piss—you actually got the boots."
Elen smirked as she glanced at the Northern Irish lass, playfulness betraying pride with a quiet chuckle.
"This—," she paused for effect, eyes glinting, "is our key to take over Britain."
Disbelief crossed all our faces at the revelation of the next steps. I couldn't help the knowing smirk creeping across mine—Elen had whispered the plan to me first. The pieces were in motion.
Dublin, Ireland
The corridors of Leinster House carried the weight of history in their silence. Polished limestone floors stretched beneath our boots, every step echoing against the high ceilings. The air smelled faintly of varnished wood and old paper, a scent as enduring as the politics it housed.
Oil portraits of Irish statesmen stared down at us, unblinking, stern — reminders of revolution, of independence carved from empire. Green leather benches and brass railings glinted faintly through chamber doors, the harp crest catching what little light filtered through the tall sash windows.
Staffers and aides stopped as we passed, some clutching folders to their chests, others pretending not to stare. Phones remained pocketed. The Taoiseach had given strict orders: no photos, no leaks, not tonight. But even without lenses, their eyes recorded every detail — the British Prime Minister walking alongside Northern Ireland's First Minister, Áine Gallagher, in the heart of Dublin.
The tension clung like mist in the halls, settling in the carved cornices above and in the silence between our footsteps.
Seán Ó hAodha, the Irish Prime Minister, was sharp, his hands steepled, eyes like chips of ice. Áine stood beside me, a silent sentinel.
"Party leader, Prime Minister Ross has agreed to a referendum for Irish reunification," Áine began, her voice almost formal, like a subordinate reporting to her superior. "In return, our Northern branch offered her government support in Westminster ahead of the no-confidence vote."
"Yes, I've taken note of that survival," Ó hAodha said, voice clipped but courteous. "I was expecting Miss Ross' government to fall. But the way you rallied separatist parties behind you was nothing short of brilliant. Now, with this puzzle piece on the table, I must ask — since I am not naïve enough to think Ireland is given such a prize without cost — what is it that you want in return?"
I let the silence stretch, then leaned forward.
"Yma o hyd." I whispered, the first words of the Welsh anthem rolling off my tongue, a quiet defiance that filled the chamber with more weight than any speech. I touched the lapel of my coat and revealed a small daffodil pin — a token of home, of Cardiff, of a country ignored for too long.
"My name," I said evenly, "is Alwenna. Alwenna Rhys. Born and raised in Cardiff."
The shock hit them like shrapnel. Áine's lips parted, Ó hAodha's fingers stilled against the desk. Their assumptions cracked in an instant.
"Yes," I continued, letting the weight of it settle, "I am Welsh. And it is time Ireland understands this truth: it cannot be whole while turning its back on her cousins still under London's boots."
Ó hAodha took a moment to process, his sharp eyes narrowing as the absurdity of the situation settled in. Then, after a beat, a hearty laugh erupted from him, echoing through the hall.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha! No way! A Welsh nationalist infiltrated Westminster! It's like we're living in a political thriller! Ha, ha!"
Áine's eyes, however, remained steady, scanning me with a mix of disbelief and acknowledgment. She already knew — she had been at Edinburgh, seen the moves unfold, understood the plan before it reached even Ó hAodha. Her silence spoke volumes: this was no accident, no misstep. Everything was deliberate.
I allowed the weight of their reactions to settle, a quiet smirk tugging at my lips. The pieces were in motion, the allies aligned, and now even Dublin bore witness to the first hint of what was coming.
"I will allow a referendum for Irish reunification," I said after a moment, each word heavy with the stakes I was laying bare. "But my government is fragile. I need the cooperation of Irish undercover intelligence… possibly an infiltration of British soil. Troops at my disposal. Under these conditions… I will turn a blind eye to Ireland to march north. Britain, secured. Ireland, reunited."
I let the last words hang, sharp as a blade. "Take it—or leave it."
Ó hAodha blinked. "Undercover intelligence? Troops at your disposal?"
I nodded, then laid out the plan, savoring the flicker of disbelief crossing his face—first a smirk, then erupting into laughter.
"You know what… this plan," he gasped between breaths, "is so crazy… THAT IT MIGHT ACTUALLY WORK! HA HA HA!"
Áine rolled her eyes, briefly, at Ó hAodha's antics, before she flicked them back to me, silent and calculating. Every risk, every opportunity measured in that glance. For now, the deal was solid.
Westminster, London
Late evening found me back in my office. Outside, the city thrummed with life oblivious to the quiet war brewing within these walls. I sat behind the massive mahogany desk, a folder marked "DEFENSE – EMERGENCY ORDER" open before me. Each page carried the weight of authority, the fine print of control—and the flexibility of execution.
A ping broke the silence. I turned to my laptop. An encrypted email.
From: Fiona MacLeod
Subject: Militia Commanders – Scotland
I opened it. Names. Units. Deployment capabilities. Notes on loyalty, training, and strategic positioning.
Another ping.
From: Carys Morgan
Subject: Welsh Units
I read quickly, eyes scanning the entries. Strong, disciplined leaders. Each one capable of managing English officers if necessary. My lips twitched into a small, quiet smile.
It was time.
Using the draft of the emergency order as a base, I began to make adjustments. English officers, loyal to Westminster and slow to act, were replaced—one by one—with the Scottish and Welsh militia commanders recommended by Fiona and Carys. Every strike of the keyboard, every new line added, felt like moving chess pieces into place.
I paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. Some might call it audacious; I called it necessary. Britain was fragile. If Westminster failed to act decisively, chaos would spread—and I would not let it touch the Celtic nations we were protecting.
The phone buzzed again. A brief note from Áine: "Northern Irish readiness confirmed. Standing by."
Perfect.
I leaned back in the chair, imagining the reactions across the UK: traditional generals reading their orders, seeing unfamiliar names commanding them, unfamiliar units leading the operations. Confusion, yes—but control would follow. Discipline would follow. And loyalty, in the right places, would follow.
I tapped a final line into the draft law. The new names stood out in bold: commanders chosen not for their allegiance to Westminster, but for their loyalty to the nations I was sworn to protect.
The emergency order was no longer a defensive measure. It was a statement. A signal. A first step toward recalibrating power—without a single shot fired.
I leaned forward, hands resting on the desk, and exhaled slowly. Outside, Westminster moved on, blind to the quiet coup taking shape within its very offices.