The strike of King Edward IV's staff thundered like contained lightning, a roar that broke the air and stopped the clash of swords between Jon Malverne and Elena de Trastámara. The metallic fury faded; only the echo of vibrating steel hung suspended in silence.
"Enough!" the monarch bellowed, his voice imposing calm and authority in equal measure.
Both combatants fell to their knees, swords still trembling in their hands, as if the steel refused to accept peace.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," they said in unison, bowing their heads. In their voices was respect… and a silent recognition: both were more than adversaries.
The king nodded, with the weight of one carrying centuries on his shoulders.
"I will convene a council tomorrow," he announced. "Let all know the hour: the dawn bell's toll will mark the beginning."
The sound of the word council hung there, ominous, as if the walls themselves understood what was coming.
⸻
The next morning dawned gray, and Westminster's Council Chamber filled with a severe light, filtered through the high windows. Incense floated between stone columns, mixed with the scent of iron and dust from armor. The air was heavy, as if each breath contained centuries of broken promises.
High above, Edward IV's throne dominated the room. His presence, firm as stone and cold as steel, imposed silence. The shadow of his crown crossed the floor like a line between obedience and rebellion.
To his right, Elizabeth of York stood upright, each movement measured, but her gaze couldn't leave Jon Malverne. The man's mere presence altered the air, generating an imposing stillness, a latent energy that was felt more than seen. Elizabeth felt a tremor run through her chest: it wasn't fear. It was fascination… an ancient fire awakening without permission.
The first to break the spell was Bishop Godfrey of Canterbury, his deep, tempered voice resonating between the columns:
"Your Majesty, let this council not be an echo of war. No more blood before God's eyes. War only breeds hunger and misery."
Edward barely nodded, contemplating his words.
Then Elena de Trastámara spoke. Her gaze burned with indignation, her lips trembled with the force of one who fears neither kings.
"Your Majesty, I was not informed that Aragon demanded Jon Malverne's head. Castile had no knowledge of such a request."
Her declaration crossed the hall like an electrical discharge. Ambassadors looked at each other, tense. Even the torches seemed to waver.
Jon glanced at Elena for barely an instant; Elizabeth watched him and felt a knot in her stomach. Even his serenity seemed vulnerable before the determination emanating from Castile's princess.
Sir Alaric of Wessex, hardened in a hundred campaigns, intervened calmly:
"Your Majesty, recent conflicts have awakened old grudges. It would be prudent to listen before judging."
William Hastings, the king's counselor, bowed solemnly:
"Castile sealed its alliance with Aragon out of necessity, not will, Your Majesty. We have reliable information: Enrique de Trastámara, brother of the King of Castile, missing for five years, remains captive in Aragonese lands. Apparently His Majesty King Juan of Castile had no choice. These words can be verified by our spymaster, Sir Percival Langley."
King Edward IV looked at him gravely, and the spy, standing among the hall's shadows, nodded serenely, confirming the information was correct.
Then Lord Richard Neville, treasurer of the realm and the queen's brother, advanced with measured steps. His voice, silky and calculating, cut through the air:
"Your Majesty… wars consume treasures faster than heroes. If the price of peace is a single man—" he said, looking at Jon with calculating intent, "—wouldn't it be prudent to pay it? His surrender would allow gold to flow again, ports to prosper… and the crown to benefit. After all, he's nothing more than a peasant."
His jeweled fingers drummed on the table, as if counting invisible coins. Ambition made him shine, but also betrayed him.
Edward IV remained motionless, his gaze penetrating as steel. Neville paled under that silent judgment.
Don Fernando de Lezcano, ambassador of Navarre, stood:
"Your Majesty, there is more than gold at stake. As Lord Hastings says, and Sir Percival Langley's reports confirm, Enrique de Trastámara has remained captive in Aragon for five years."
Murmuring spread like fire through dry leaves. Elena gripped her sword hilts, trembling; Arvel, incredulous, understood that the uncle they believed dead had been negotiating currency all this time.
Rodrigo de Mendoza, ambassador of Aragon, stood with arrogance:
"Then only justice remains: Jon Malverne's head must be delivered to restore peace between our kingdoms. He beheaded and mutilated our king!"
Elena advanced, furious:
"Peace? At the cost of betrayal, blackmail, and hundreds of innocent lives murdered in Ashwick? Castile will not negotiate with you!"
Rodrigo smiled with contempt:
"Your words, lady, weigh no more than a woman's; councils and armor are men's business. You shouldn't even be part of this council."
Before anyone could react, he drew his sword. Elena responded instinctively: both swords cut the air in a perfect arc. The ambassador's head rolled onto the table with a dry thud; the silence that followed was more terrifying than the scream that never came.
The Royal Guard tensed; Captain Sir Geoffrey Hawke advanced, hand on his hilt, but the king's gesture stopped him. Aragonese soldiers shouted and charged at Elena… until an invisible presence stopped them: Jon, motionless, arms crossed, emanating pure authority. All the air became dense; even the fiercest men felt fear. Only Elizabeth, paralyzed, felt a tremor of wet pleasure run through her legs that almost made her moan in the hall.
Jon rose then, silent; the air itself seemed to vibrate around him. His movements were invisible, his gestures precise. A second later, the Aragonese swords fell to the floor, followed by their hands. The marble stained red under absolute silence. The smell of iron filled the air.
Elizabeth didn't breathe; Jon's murderous calm and authority trapped her in a mixture of horror and desire, primitive and uncontrollable.
Bishop Godfrey made the sign of the cross:
"May God have mercy on us."
King Edward IV rose forcefully:
"Enough! This council is not a battlefield!"
The echo of his voice dominated the room; even Jon stopped, eyes fixed on the monarch. The king's authority was the only force capable of containing that abyss.
Neville tried to intervene:
"Your Majesty… the spilled blood is regrettable, but it can still serve us. Aragon will pay for peace… and peace, you know, breeds gold. We must deliver Malverne's head now more than ever."
Edward turned to him with a look that stripped him of all arrogance.
"Shut your filthy mouth!" the king roared.
Elena, panting, wiped the blood from her swords:
"Castile's honor is also at stake. Even if my father opposes it, it's time to renegotiate alliances."
Neville retreated without replying.
Elena sheathed her weapons; Jon had a fleeting echo of the future. For an instant, a vision crossed his mind: a woman in another time, burning gaze, holding weapons that didn't belong to this world. The vision disappeared, leaving him with the certainty that destiny had just awakened.
Jon broke his silence, his deep, contained voice filling the hall:
"What do you mean they have my father prisoner?"
The silence that followed weighed like centuries. The blood of kings ran through the veins of the man everyone wanted to kill.
Everyone was stunned; Elena and Arvel couldn't believe it: Jon was the son of their uncle Enrique de Trastámara. The words floated heavy as destiny. Ambassadors lowered their heads; wounded soldiers held their breath.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, her pulse racing. The image of Jon—standing upright amid blood, gray light, and silence—was engraved in her mind with the intensity of eternal flame. Her ambition, private and secret, to have Jon under her control, under her roof, under her power, perhaps even under marriage. Everything inside her grew like a contained fire.
Edward IV rested his hands on the throne. His voice thundered with the authority of centuries:
"No kingdom will dictate justice over England. No man, however noble or foreign, will raise his sword in my council."
The echo of his words was majestic, final.
The torches wavered.
Those present didn't breathe.
Only the king spoke one last time:
"Princess Elena, take this message to Castile and Aragon: England will not negotiate. We will prepare for war… and we will bring our best weapon: The Scourge of Kings."