The docks slept under the weight of salt and rust. Butetown's narrow streets carried the bitter mix of fried food, diesel, and the faint tang of seaweed drifting from the bay. I stood in the small courtyard behind our flat, staring at my father's car — a 2008 Vauxhall Corsa, polished to a spiteful shine even in the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp. The skateboard leaned against my leg, its worn grip tape numb beneath my foot, a tiny promise of freedom ready to launch me from this world once I finished this task.
The car wasn't just metal. It was his pride, his rules, his control pressed into tangible form. Everything he loved more than us. Every dent he had fussed over, every scratch painstakingly buffed out—it was a shrine to his authority, and I hated it.
My hands shook as I struck the match. The tiny flare danced in the damp air, fragile, fleeting. For one second, I almost lost my nerve. One wrong move, and it could all go sideways. Then I dropped it onto the soaked rag stuffed into the fuel tank. The fire erupted instantly, black smoke curling into the night, licking at the edges of the courtyard walls. Heat pressed against my face, stinging my eyes, but I didn't flinch. I barely noticed the acrid tang biting my throat.
Shouts rose from the street. Sirens wailed faintly across the bay. But I didn't move. I just watched it all go up in flames, watched the thing that had controlled us burn. Then, with a flick of my right foot, the skateboard shot into Butetown's winding streets, carrying me forward. I left the house, the courtyard, the life I had known behind me. Permanent. Irrevocable. Never again, I swore, would I break to a man. Behind me, the car collapsed into itself in fire. Ahead, Cardiff's skyline shimmered faintly, lights reflecting on the Taff, daring me to step into the wide, uncertain world beyond.
Butetown had always been a place of survival, of scraps and hustles, of people forgotten by those in marble halls. The narrow alleys, the warehouses smelling of salt and rust, the clang of metal from the shipyards, the bitter tang of smoke from last night's fires—this was home, harsh and unyielding. That night, sleeping under the bridge above the Taff, I curled against the cold stone, shivering in the October mist, feeling the warmth of the city fade into the distance. A girl no older than thirteen, scared, trembling, decided something fierce had awoken inside her: she would never be forgotten.
I pressed my hands into the damp cobblestones and whispered a promise into the dark. One day, I swore, the fire would spread. And when it did, the world would remember that Butetown had raised her.
[BBC Montage – Britain in Flames]
The screen split, showing city after city in turmoil. Rain slicked streets reflected flashing lights. Smoke hung thick, acrid, from fires licking bins and abandoned vehicles.
Cardiff: Flames curled from overturned cars. Young protesters darted between streetlights, shields raised against baton-wielding officers. A faint sheen of blood ran across the cobblestones. The voice of the BBC reporter carried over the chaos:
"Authorities urge calm as protests escalate. Damage is significant, and clashes with police have already left several injured."
Glasgow: The camera panned across George Square, where steel-and-glass buildings were reflected in shattered windows. Demonstrators chanted in unison, a wave of red and blue umbrellas bobbing under heavy rain. The occasional flash of a flare illuminated the faces of those who refused to leave. Police lines strained under pressure, and smoke from burning barricades curled into the sky.
Douglas, Isle of Man: Narrow streets clogged with rioters, local constables struggling to maintain order. The camera caught glimpses of overturned crates and a small bonfire, the glow illuminating graffiti that read "Freedom for Our Nations."
Belfast: Sirens wove through the mist, clashing with the sound of shouting crowds. Police struggled to control alleyways, while masked figures moved with precision, darting between buildings, guiding the flow of unrest. Windows shattered, fires flared, and the tension was almost tangible through the lens.
Truro: The streets of Cornwall's capital were no different. Youths smashed barricades along the quay. Riot vans moved slowly, officers shouting orders drowned in the roar of the crowd. Rain made the pavement slick with mud and blood, the chaos magnified under the gray sky.
The camera cut back and forth, lingering just long enough to show injury and disorder, but never enough to expose real carnage—just enough to establish that the UK was teetering. Every clip carried a subtext: the authorities were failing, the people were enraged, and the unrest was coordinated yet untraceable.
"Across the UK," the reporter intoned, "what began as isolated protests has erupted into widespread civil unrest. Officials urge citizens to stay indoors as police attempt to regain control, though many fear the situation may continue to deteriorate."
And in homes across the country, millions watched, unaware that in the shadows, the unrest was not random. Every flare, every barricade, every roar of a crowd was being observed, measured, and strategically leveraged.
Somewhere in the storm of smoke and fire, a network of young leaders orchestrated the chaos—not for destruction, but for leverage. And soon, one of them would step forward with authority over the very forces sent to suppress the people, a quiet coup disguised as emergency governance.
London
Late evening, London was a city of dim streetlamps and indifferent traffic, oblivious to the quiet storm unfolding within its walls. I sat behind the massive mahogany desk of my office, the "DEFENSE – EMERGENCY ORDER" folder open before me. Each page was a web of authority, a blueprint for control—but also, carefully, a blueprint for leverage.
Every line was scrutinized, every name weighed. English officers, predictable and slow to act, were methodically replaced with Scottish and Welsh militia commanders, their identities disguised with carefully constructed English-sounding aliases. Police commanders, intelligence officers, the regional militias offered enough men to systematically replace the machine loyal to the Westminster... with one that would serve our marginalized nations. The UK was being redrawn.
I paused, imagining generals across the UK reading their orders the next day. Confusion would ripple first. Then discipline. Then loyalty—once the right names were in place. This wasn't just an emergency order. It was a statement. A signal. A prelude to recalibrating power—all without a single shot fired.
I leaned back in my chair, eyes flicking to the city beyond the office window. Westminster, unaware. The BBC had shown the unrest. Riots in Cardiff, Glasgow, Belfast, Douglas, Truro. Bloodied streets, chaos—but now, a plan, a network of commanders ready to act. The people's fury was being transformed into leverage.
I typed the final line into the draft. Bolded names stood out, carefully concealed: commanders loyal not to Westminster, but to the Celtic nations they hailed from. Every replacement, every subtle insertion, was a move toward a new balance of power.
The emergency order was no longer defensive. It was strategic. A quiet coup unfolding in the shadows of marble halls and mahogany desks. I grabbed my coat, and made my way outside, ready to set the next move on the chessboard in place.
The plaza outside the government building smelled faintly of smoke and rain. Barricades still lined the edges of the street, remnants of the riots that had shaken Glasgow, Cardiff, Douglas, Belfast, and Truro. Cameras flashed, microphones leaned forward, and a cluster of reporters jostled for position, their pens scratching, their lenses focused. I stepped up to the podium, the polished wood cold beneath my palms, and the murmurs of the crowd fading into silence as I exhaled.
"Citizens of the United Kingdom," I began, my voice clear, unwavering. "Over the past days, our nation has witnessed unrest—coordinated and violent actions in multiple cities. Glasgow, Cardiff, Douglas, Belfast, Truro—these events threatened public safety and tested the resilience of our institutions."
A camera clicked. A journalist whispered something into her microphone. I ignored it.
"Let me be unequivocal," I continued. "Our government will not allow the suppression of opposition, nor will we tolerate chaos. To ensure the protection of all citizens, I have authorized a full reorganization of command structures within our police forces and armed services. Certain positions, previously held by officers whose loyalties might hinder decisive action, have been replaced with commanders trained, disciplined, and committed to the security and welfare of our communities."
The crowd shifted, some gasping, some whispering. I let the moment hang before continuing.
"This is not an act of aggression. It is a measure of preservation. Britain will not be a country where the voice of its people is crushed by force. These changes ensure that order is maintained, that citizens may live without fear, and that our security services act with integrity and fairness."
A reporter shouted a question, but I raised my hand, silencing them. "Every officer, every unit under this new structure is ready to respond to threats responsibly. Their allegiance is to the people, not to political games or unchecked authority."
I paused, letting my gaze sweep across the assembled press, across the city streets. "This is a turning point. A recalibration. A safeguard for our future. Make no mistake—the government remains strong, the Union intact, and the integrity of our nation protected. And those who would challenge this, those who would spread chaos, should understand: we act for the people, and we will act with precision."
Microphones clicked. Cameras zoomed. Social media would be ablaze before the hour ended. But I remained calm, as always, the faintest smirk tugging at my lips. Outside, London moved on, unaware of the silent revolution already embedded in its institutions.
I stepped back from the podium, letting the echoes of my words settle over the crowd. For the first time in weeks, the capital breathed in controlled anticipation. The pieces had moved. The dragon had risen.
The next day...
The early morning fog clung to Whitehall like a shroud. From my window, London looked half-asleep — unaware that the island beneath it had already begun to change hands.
The phone on my desk buzzed in short, regular intervals. Each vibration was another report. Another movement. Another flag raised.
"Militias in Aberystwyth have secured the harbour and radio station. Local police standing down."
"Glasgow—Scottish Volunteer Corps have taken control of the M8 corridor. Civilian traffic redirected without resistance."
"Cardiff—Welsh Liberation Guard now overseeing regional communications. Civilian morale high"
"Plymouth—Cornish Free Brigade entered town hall. No shots fired. Council cooperating."
I scrolled through each report, marking them on the map before me. Red pins for unrest. Green for consolidation. Blue for success. The board was bleeding green.
Every militia wore local colours, not my government's. Every one of them moved in disciplined silence, without looting or banners — just quiet men and women reclaiming what was always theirs. It was not a coup in the old sense; it was an awakening.
The Defense Ministry's secure line blinked. My aide, voice steady but taut:
"Prime Minister, we're receiving reports of regional communications being rerouted through local command centers. They're calling themselves 'provisional defense councils'—claiming loyalty to the Republic."
"Good," I said softly. "Let them."
The English officers who still held regional commands would awaken today to find their authority eroded not by force, but by legitimacy. Every Celtic district was now self-administering. Every garrison surrounded not by rebels, but by their own people.
Another message appeared on the encrypted feed: "Dublin confirms monitoring. No interference."
Áine kept her word. Ireland would watch, not move — not yet.
Outside, the first shafts of dawn broke through the fog, gilding the rooftops of Westminster. I stood at the window, watching the city as if from a different world. The capital slept under its illusion of control.
Then another notification flashed red. Northern command. Faslane.
My throat tightened before I even opened it.
"Prime Minister—Scottish National Defence volunteers have secured His Majesty's Naval Base Clyde. Trident systems remain under protection. No hostile action. Local Royal Navy officers have been disarmed but not detained. No casualties reported."
The words sank slowly, like lead into water.
Faslane — the heart of Britain's nuclear deterrent. Now in Scottish hands.
I tapped the desk once, deliberate. "Put me through to the commander."
A pause. Then a gruff voice filled the line. "Madam Prime Minister. Base secure. All systems locked down. Safeguards remain operational. The Scottish Defence Council will maintain joint oversight until the Republic issues further instruction."
"Joint oversight," I repeated, the phrase tasting both dangerous and brilliant. "Understood. You'll maintain personnel discipline and refrain from transferring or testing assets. The world is watching."
"Aye, ma'am," came the answer. "We're not looking for war. Just dignity."
The line went dead.
I sat back, staring at the blinking red dot marking Faslane on the map. For decades, that single site had been the ultimate symbol of Britain's unity — English warheads sleeping in Scottish soil. Now, the equation had flipped. The periphery held the core.
Behind me, the phone buzzed again — another report, another success. Cornwall. Wales. Mann. Scotland. Each corner of the Isles was awake.
I watched the light rising over London and murmured, almost to the city itself:
"You had your empire. Now watch the nations you isolated in the peripheries decide they're tired of being footnotes in the homeland you stole... from them."
I gave the order. The march had begun.
The March
Night had swallowed the city, but headlights and the dull hum of engines cut through the mist as convoys of troop carriers rolled into London. The streets were eerily empty, streetlamps flickering against wet asphalt, shadows stretching long and thin. Boots hit the ground with precision, a drumbeat of control that seemed to echo off the marble façades of government buildings.
Inside a secure, dimly lit government office, I waited. Maps and encrypted tablets littered the table, each displaying streets, checkpoints, and the positions of both loyalist units and our new commanders. The Scottish and Welsh militia leaders filed in, stepping lightly yet with purpose. Their faces were composed, eyes sharp, assessing me as I assessed them. Every name here had been vetted, every loyalty tested. The English aliases would hold for now.
"Commanders," I began, voice steady but low enough that the walls themselves seemed to lean in, "tonight, you are the front line. Not for me. Not for Westminster. For the people who've been ignored for decades. Every step you take, every order you give, ensures that Britain is protected, not crushed. Obedience is expected, but allegiance lies with the nations you represent."
I let the words hang for a moment, letting the weight of them sink in. Their eyes met mine, a mixture of respect, determination, and silent acknowledgment. No one faltered. No one questioned the logic. They knew the stakes.
Fiona, overseeing the Scottish units, gave a slight nod. Carys mirrored her with the Welsh side. Áine's presence was calm, silent, an anchor in the tension of the room.
I tapped a tablet, highlighting the next moves: the routes into Westminster, the units' positions, the timing of each step. "Tonight, we advance not as rebels, not as invaders—but as guardians of a nation that has forgotten its own strength. Once these movements begin, the city will see discipline, not chaos. Control, not anarchy."
A brief silence followed. Then, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of a smile passed across each of their faces. The preparation, the training, the secrecy—it all made sense now. The march would not fail.
I glanced at the wall clock. The time for planning was almost up. Outside, London waited, unaware of the disciplined columns about to move.
I let the meeting pause there, cutting short before we discussed every last tactical detail. The march, the palace, the abdication—it all had to unfold naturally. Too much knowledge too early would compromise the moment.
The commanders stood, ready, waiting for the signal. I exhaled slowly, letting the calm of control wash over me. At midnight, Buckingham Palace loomed, its marble façade lit in cold white. Armored vehicles surrounded the gates. Soldiers fanned out silently across the courtyard. Inside, the corridors trembled with hurried footsteps and muffled voices.
I allowed myself a brief glance at the commanders behind me. Their posture was perfect, disciplined, faces unreadable—but I could feel the energy coiled tightly within them, like springs ready to release. This was the moment all the drills, all the encrypted messages, all the meticulous replacements had been building toward.
A soft tap on a tablet indicated the synchronization with Irish intelligence—inside Buckingham Palace, unseen eyes ensured that loyalist forces would not interfere. Every piece was in place. Every move calculated.
Then, together, we pushed the heavy doors open. The royal chamber of Buckingham Palace stretched before me, gilded and imposing, chandeliers casting cold light across polished floors. The air was heavy, scented faintly of wax polish and old perfume, a relic of centuries of ceremonial power. Outside, London slept—or thought it did. Inside, history was about to pivot.
King William stood at the far end of the room, his posture rigid, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight. Pale in the lamplight, his eyes flashed with fury and disbelief. The weight of centuries of monarchy pressed visibly on him, yet none of it could match the quiet, inexorable authority I carried across the room.
"You are destroying the Crown," he spat, voice shaking with anger, every syllable a challenge. "The Union. Everything it stands for!"
"No," I said evenly, stepping closer, heels soft against the polished marble. "I am saving it—from itself."
I placed the abdication document on the table before him. The paper lay pristine, the pen gleaming like a dagger of ink, ready to etch a new order into history. I watched him inhale sharply, hand hovering above the paper, fingers trembling slightly.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The chandeliers reflected off the polished floors, catching the glint of the pen. Outside, the city's murmurs of unrest were faint, distant—but I felt them all the same. This was the moment where control, discipline, and patience converged.
His hand moved slowly, each motion deliberate, as if every stroke of ink could undo centuries. The pen scratched across parchment, the ink bleeding into his name. His eyes, burning, lingered on mine, searching for weakness, but finding none.
The abdication was complete. The Crown had fallen—not with chaos or rebellion, but with precision, with strategy, and with the inevitability of a dragon awakened.
I stepped back, letting the moment settle, letting history record itself in silence and ink. King William lowered his gaze, the reality crashing down, and for a brief instant, the weight of centuries lifted from the room.
Outside Buckingham Palace, London would awaken to a new dawn. Inside, a queen-in-waiting stood steady, the quiet architect of a revolution that would reshape the United Kingdom.
[BBC Broadcast – Live]
"Good evening. We bring you live coverage of historic events unfolding across the United Kingdom. Moments ago, Buckingham Palace confirmed the formal abdication of King William. In a statement earlier tonight, Prime Minister Ross addressed the nation regarding the transition. Our correspondent, Clara Hughes, is on the streets of Westminster with more. Clara?"
The camera wobbled slightly as the feed came alive. Westminster's streets were unusually still, lit by streetlamps and the flashing lights of broadcast vans. Behind the barricades, crowds murmured, a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Clara's voice was steady, professional, but her eyes reflected the magnitude of the moment.
"Thank you. The atmosphere here is tense but controlled. Citizens gathered in the square witnessed Prime Minister Ross address the nation earlier this evening. We have live footage of her speech now."
The camera shows Elen standing at the podium, composed, the polished wood cold beneath her hands. Behind her, Westminster looms faintly in the night, barricades lining the edges of the square.
"Citizens of the United Kingdom," she begins, her voice clear and unwavering. "With the abdication of King William, I now proclaim the establishment of a British Republic. Presidential and parliamentary elections will be held in six months to ensure a government accountable to the people. These measures are necessary for the survival and stability of our nation. We act for the people—and we will act with precision."
"The Prime Minister's words have clearly resonated with those gathered here tonight. While some cheer, waving banners, others remain stunned, processing the implications of a republic replacing the monarchy. Security forces maintain a visible presence, though there is no sign of unrest."
"Indeed, Clara. The abdication and the proclamation of a republic mark a complete transformation in the governance of Britain. We'll continue to monitor the situation closely, bringing you live updates from across the country."
From above, the city stretches out under the night sky, silent streets and glowing river reflections marking a country in the midst of historic change.
Footage briefly cuts to Cardiff, Glasgow, Belfast, and Truro, citizens watching the broadcast on screens, reacting with shock, curiosity, and cautious optimism. The chant from the march echoes faintly in the background: "No more chains! No more chains!"
_______________________________________________________________
The studio lights faded behind me as the broadcast went silent. Outside, London breathed in uneasy anticipation. The city had changed overnight, though most wouldn't realize it until morning.
I stood alone on the balcony of my office, the cool wind brushing against my face. Below, Westminster's streets were still, shadows stretching long across empty asphalt. The barricades remained, a reminder of chaos contained and control asserted.
Six months. That was all it would take. Elections, a republic, a government truly accountable to the people. A new beginning—or a reckoning, depending on the eyes watching.
I touched the daffodil pin at my lapel, feeling the weight of every choice I had made, every risk I had taken. The dragon had awakened. And now, finally, it would rise.
A faint smile curved my lips.
Let them come.