Cardiff flashback
10:45 PM. The outskirts of Butetown reeked of salt, stale chip oil, and the kind of poverty that clung to the walls like mold. A faint breeze drifted in from the Bay, soft and teasing, but there was no mistaking the rot behind it. And there I was — a girl no older than nineteen — racing through the half-dead hum of Alice Street, roller skates spinning beneath me, the wind brushing my face like a half-hearted kiss. Two-floor brick blocks loomed around me, windows like tired eyes. The glow from the lampposts flickered in and out, turning the pavement into patches of gold and shadow. I blinked against the light and slowed down, coasting to a stop outside the mosque — the so-called meeting place.
It was quiet. Still. I leaned on one foot, feeling the rumble of music in the distance, probably from someone's battered Vauxhall Astra. As I waited, I caught my reflection in the side window of a car parked nearby. What a sight. An oversized pink hoodie swallowed my frame, the red of a Welsh national team jersey peeking out beneath it. My jeans — black, baggy, ripped at the knees — hung dangerously low, barely clinging to my thighs. One sharp gust of wind, and it'd be me and my knickers out in the open.
I looked like trouble. And I felt like one too.
Hidden in the front pocket of my hoodie: three grams of coke. Carefully wrapped, shoved inside a half-empty pack of superslim Benson & Hedges. A neat little disguise. Nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Just enough to get by.
Five minutes passed. Then, he showed up.
A skinny Pakistani lad, black hair curling in the wind, maybe eighteen, maybe younger. He rolled up on the cheapest pushbike you could imagine — rusted frame, squeaky wheels, no light. One look, and I knew this wasn't his first ride out here. Maybe not even his tenth.
No words. We didn't need any. I passed him the package. He passed me the cash. Swift, clean, like choreography. The way it's supposed to go.
But tonight... tonight had other plans.
A flash of white and sickly green caught the corner of my eye — that god-awful chessboard paint job that only one kind of car had. SWP. South Wales Police. Audi estate. Unmistakable. And then — blue lights.
"Bloody hell."
No time to think. No time to blink.
I turned on my wheels and bolted, legs pumping, rubber wheels stuttering on uneven stone. I heard shouting behind me — some angry copper's voice echoing off the walls — but it faded into the roar of the engine as they started to give chase.
This was too close to home. Too close to me.
I pushed harder, breath catching in my throat, ears ringing. My skates clipped the edge of the kerb, jolting me off balance, but I didn't fall. Couldn't. Didn't have the luxury. Behind me, the Audi growled like a hungry pig, prowling the tight backstreets, squeezing through places no car had any right to fit into.
"Fucking cunts," I muttered, gritting my teeth.
My mind raced. What do I do? What the fuck do I do?
The streets around here were a maze, but not the kind you could lose a car in forever. The alleys twisted and turned like a rat's nest, but if they caught the right turn, they'd cut me off before I could even breathe.
Then it hit me — the old back gate behind the mosque. Half-rusted, half-open, always creaking, but if it hadn't been padlocked shut since last week's drama, I might be able to slip through. Past that? Crumbling industrial units, garages, and dead ground. Dangerous ground. But open enough to buy time.
Or... the market alleys. Tight, cluttered, barely enough room to walk, let alone drive. If I could lose them there, I could cut through to the canal and circle back.
I had seconds to decide. And I was already moving.
The market alleys swallowed me fast — tarps snapping overhead, bruised mangoes rolling underfoot, vendors yelling curses in Somali and Welsh. A copper's shout echoed off the brick. Too close. I shoved a hand into my pocket, thumb slick against glass, and spat out a message as I ran: "I'm coming over" Sent, screen black. No time for more.
Bute Street opened like a throat, all noise and light. A double-decker thundered past and I shot straight in front of it, wheels scraping sparks off the curb. The bus shrieked to a halt, air brakes screaming. Behind me, uniforms skidded to a stop — cut off on the wrong side. Sirens wailed, trapped in traffic. My chance.
I veered left, breath sawing at my ribs, until the shadow of Clarence Road bridge swallowed me. The stink of the Taff rose up, damp and metallic. I collapsed under the girders, lungs tearing. For a second the world tilted; I thought I'd black out right there.
Not an option. Not tonight.
Shaking, I pulled the crumpled wrap from my pocket, cut quick on the back of my phone. One line, sharp and mean, fire straight up my nose. My skull buzzed, heartbeat snapping back into rhythm. The burn steadied me.
I shoved it away, spat into the dark, and forced my legs to move again. Grangetown lights blinked ahead, terraced windows like watchful eyes. Clive Street wasn't far now. And... with what remained of my strength, I made it.
The narrow hallway of Carys' flat smelled faintly of tea and damp wool — homey in a way Butetown never was. I skated up the steps, heart hammering, lungs still burning, and tapped lightly at the door. It swung open before I could knock.
"Alwenna?" Carys' voice was sharp, a mix of worry and irritation. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
I winced, rubbing my arm where I'd scraped it on the curb. "Just… out for a spin," I mumbled, trying to sound casual. My hoodie smelled like sweat and asphalt. I avoided her eyes.
"Out for a spin? The police were five feet behind you!" she snapped, but the edge in her tone softened as she stepped aside. "Come in before I call the lot on you."
Inside, the flat was warm, lamps casting soft amber light over the cluttered kitchen table. Carys motioned me toward a chair.
"Sit. Tell me everything. And I mean everything. No lies."
I sank down, skates clattering against the wooden floor. Her eyes softened as she brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. "You're lucky I found you before they did. You think the streets will protect you?"
I swallowed, remembering the chase, the flashing blue lights. "I… I know," I whispered.
Then, without thinking, I let my gaze linger on her. She always seemed to exist in a calm, ordered orbit that I could never escape. My chest tightened. For a heartbeat, I imagined leaning in — just to see if maybe… — but she was absorbed in drying a mug, oblivious. I blinked. Pulled back.
"I'll… I'll be fine," I said, voice tight. Not a lie, exactly, just a promise I needed her to believe.
Carys crouched in front of me, eyes steady, searching. "You need to rest. Clean up. Eat. I'm not letting you go back out there tonight."
Her hand lingered on my shoulder as she guided me to the small couch. "And don't you dare disappear again. You're not invincible."
I nodded, heart thudding in a different rhythm now. Safe. For the moment. Cared for. But the quiet ache of what I wanted — a kiss, a spark that I couldn't yet take — stayed tucked behind my ribs, dormant. She didn't notice, and I wasn't going to risk it. Not tonight.
I let myself lean against the couch cushions, breathing in her scent, the warmth, the quiet. Maybe one day she'd see me like that. Until then, I'd survive on stolen moments, waiting for a world where I could be more than just Alwenna — the girl who ran, the girl who needed saving, the girl who wanted her.
Ipswitch, England
The hall smelled of spilled beer and singed wood. Ipswich had never hosted kings or revolutions before, but tonight it cradled something close enough. The long tables were scattered with empty bottles, half-crumbled loaves, and the clutter of victory — laughter, raised voices, arguments too sharp to be serious.
A battered Welsh flag hung beside the Scottish saltire, the Cornish cross, the triskelion of Mann. Improvised banners tacked against plaster made the walls look more like a rebel stronghold than a civic hall.
Fiona raised her glass, eyes bright. "Here's to the first night Britain has stood free of a crown in a thousand years!"
"Not a thousand," Elen cut in smoothly, leaning back in her chair, a sly smirk playing on her lips. "We still had princes in Gwynedd in the thirteenth century. Llywelyn ap Gruffudd didn't die for me to let the Scots steal all the glory."
That earned a round of laughter, and Carys, cheeks flushed from the Penderyn, tapped her glass against Elen's. "She's right. The last true sovereign in this land wasn't some Stuart or Hanoverian. It was ours. Welsh blood in Welsh soil."
Fiona rolled her eyes. "Aye, aye. You had your princes. But it was Bannockburn that proved England could bleed."
"And Culloden that proved Scotland could kneel," Áine said quietly, her voice cutting sharper than steel.
The room sobered for half a heartbeat, until she added with a faint grin, "But don't worry — Ireland remembers everything."
That broke the tension, sending another ripple of laughter across the hall.
"Christ, listen to us," muttered Penrose, pouring himself another cider. "Like kids squabbling over whose graveyard has the oldest bones… Well, technically, England was a republic once, so I suppose we're free after four centuries of continuous monarchy."
Fiona and Áine felt the sting of that statement, the memory of Scotland and Ireland under Cromwell's campaigns flashing briefly in their minds.
Elen smirked, leaning back. "English dictators count as monarchs too."
Moira cut in, half-joking, half-serious. "I hope this reorganization of Britain doesn't see the Isle of Man ceded to Scotland or Wales now."
Fiona arched an eyebrow, a faint grin tugging at her lips. "Past is past," she said lightly. "The Man's been Scottish for a while now—seems to like it that way."
Elen chuckled from across the table. "See? Even the tiny islands know who calls the shots now."
Carys rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
"Only you lot could make annexation sound like tea-time gossip."
Laughter bubbled up across the hall, the weight of politics fading beneath the warmth of camaraderie and shared mischief.
"That's history," Elen said, her voice calm but carrying. She leaned forward now, elbows on the table. "It lives because we argue about it. Because we fight over it. Tonight, we can afford to argue — because tonight, for the first time, we hold the pen that writes the next chapter."
A silence followed, softer this time, filled with the weight of her words. Then Fiona slammed her glass down. "To the next chapter, then!"
"To the next chapter!" the room echoed, voices raised, glasses clinking.
For a moment, Ipswich felt like the capital of something greater than itself.
Westminster, London
The Commons chamber and its old arguments never failed to rub me off the wrong way. The green benches were packed, every seat taken, the air thick with the hum of restrained hostility. Above, the press gallery bristled with cameras; their lenses glinted like the eyes of watchful crows.
I stepped up to the despatch box, the weight of silence pressing down. My reflection flickered in the brass fittings — too calm, too collected, for what I truly felt.
"Members of Parliament," I began, voice steady, "Britain is entering uncharted waters. We face not just the collapse of a monarchy, but the responsibility of building a republic worthy of its people."
Murmurs rippled — some approving, others biting. I pressed on.
"For six months, the Emergency Decrees remain in effect. Six months to steady the ship. To restore security. To keep the nation whole." A pause. "But after that — the people will decide."
Fairfax's eyes drilled into me from across the aisle, calculating, already seeing the angles.
I lifted the draft plan from the folder and placed it flat on the box.
"In three months' time, we will hold elections for a Constituent Assembly, tasked with drafting a republican constitution. In six months, Britain will elect its first president by popular vote. Parliament will remain seated, its authority intact, but its role — transitional. The Parliament will appoint an interim President of the Republic, "
Shouts went up — "Shame!" from the hard-right, "At last!" from the Reform benches, and something unintelligible from the SNP corner. The Speaker's gavel cracked like thunder.
I let the chamber simmer, then spoke again, quieter this time, so they had to lean forward.
"We did not fight for power. We fought for survival. What comes next must belong to the people — every nation, every region, every voice. Let no one say we replaced one tyranny with another."
The chamber erupted again, but this time I didn't listen. I stood straight, hands resting lightly on the despatch box, and thought of what waited beyond this hall: allies, rivals, and the long shadow of history.
For now, though, I had carved the path. The Republic had a plan.