Elena de Trastámara stepped forward, with the authority of one who no longer needed permission to speak. Her voice resonated clear, firm, cutting through the room's dense air:
"I will carry the message to Castile, Your Majesty."
She turned toward the mutilated Aragonese soldiers, who still remained kneeling in pools of their own blood, clutching their stumps with soaked rags. Their faces were pale, distorted by pain and humiliation.
"You," Elena said, pointing at them with the edge of her gaze, "will carry the message to Aragon. Inform your kingdom of the events that occurred in this council. Let them know that England will declare war for the crimes committed in Ashwick and the blood spilled here."
The soldiers exchanged terrified looks. One of them tried to stand, trembling, but fell to his knees again. Another sobbed silently, unable to bear the shame and fear consuming them.
"Withdraw," King Edward ordered in a grave voice.
The men dragged themselves toward the exit, leaving a red trail on the marble. No one helped them. No one looked at them with pity. They were living messengers of a warning that would resonate in Zaragoza's halls like a war cry.
When the door closed behind them, silence fell over the hall again like a lead blanket.
Elena took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. Then, for the first time since Jon had entered her life, she looked directly into his eyes. Her voice came out lower than intended, with a nervous tremor she disguised behind a mask of coldness.
"What do you mean you're Enrique's son?"
Jon held her gaze for an instant, and something inside him stirred. It wasn't just curiosity he saw in her. It was recognition. As if their souls had met before, in another time, in another place.
"With your permission, Your Majesty," Jon said, turning to the king. "May I sit?"
Edward IV nodded with a solemn gesture.
"Let everyone return to their seats."
The king turned toward Captain Geoffrey Hawke.
"Captain, order them to clean the table and the hall. We cannot continue deliberating among corpses."
Geoffrey bowed briefly and approached one of his men, murmuring the order in a low voice. The soldier left quickly, and moments later, the echo of hurried footsteps resonated in the corridors.
Edward sat again, resting his hands on the throne's arms.
"Excuse the interruption," he said with a calm that contrasted with the brutality of what had occurred. "I'm also interested in knowing this."
Jon nodded, took a deep breath, and began to speak. His voice was deep, measured, as if each word weighed more than it should.
"My father is Enrique de Trastámara. My mother, Agnes Malverne, is a peasant originally from Ashwick. They never married."
Elena blinked, surprised.
"My uncle never married… I had no idea he had a son."
Arvel, seated beside her, frowned, processing the revelation.
Elena looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something she couldn't name.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen," Jon responded.
Elena felt a tremor. Almost the same age as me. She was twenty.
Jon continued, his gaze lost in some distant point, as if he were reliving each word.
"My father visited us regularly. He spent months with us in Ashwick. He was… a good man. A great warrior. And a loving father."
He paused, clenching his fists on the table.
"A little over five years ago, a retinue of elite armed men—whose origin I didn't know until now—arrived at our house. They took my mother and me as hostages… to take him away."
The memory struck him forcefully.
Flashback – Five years ago
Jon was fourteen years old. The knife's edge pressed against his throat with such force he could barely breathe. The man holding him smelled of iron and rancid sweat.
"No! Please, don't hurt him!" Agnes screamed, kneeling on the floor with her hands tied behind her back. Tears ran down her face as she watched them drag Enrique toward the door.
Enrique de Trastámara struggled against the chains, but there were too many. Ten men, armed to the teeth, surrounded him like wolves.
"Let him go! Leave them alone!" Agnes begged, her voice broken.
Enrique turned his head toward his son. His eyes, dark and firm, fixed on Jon's with an intensity that pierced through fear.
"Son…" he said, voice hoarse. "Become stronger. Take care of your mother."
And then they took him away.
Agnes fell to the floor, sobbing. Jon tried to scream, but the knife at his throat silenced him.
That was the last time he saw his father.
⸻
Jon blinked, returning to the present. His voice came out harder now, colder.
"I traveled two years searching for him. I traveled through villages, ports, fortresses. I never found him. Never found a clue."
Elena watched him, motionless. Something inside her tightened, as if Jon's pain resonated in an ancient place within her own soul.
"I returned home to my mother," Jon continued. "She still lives in Ashwick. Very alone. Almost sick with sadness."
He turned toward Edward IV.
"Your Majesty, I need my mother to be protected in the realm. Aragon executed their king and will probably go after her."
Edward nodded solemnly.
"Count on it, Sir Jon. I will send an elite escort to Ashwick. Your mother will be brought to Westminster under the crown's protection."
Jon bowed his head in gratitude.
⸻
Sir Alaric of Wessex leaned forward, arms crossed on the table.
"Was it your father who trained you?"
Jon nodded.
"Until I was fourteen. After he disappeared, I used those foundations to continue training on my own."
Don Fernando de Lezcano, the ambassador of Navarre, spoke in a deep voice, laden with respect.
"Now it all makes more sense. I was Enrique's battle companion. He was a legend. An unequaled warrior."
He paused, looking at Jon with something resembling reverence.
"Now that you tell us they took your mother and you as hostages… it explains how they managed to capture him. Enrique would never have fallen in direct combat."
Sir Alaric nodded, with a somber half-smile.
"I once faced him on the battlefield. It was when I came closest to death, but he had mercy and let me live despite being his enemy."
The ambassador turned toward Elena.
"I understand that Enrique was also Princess Elena's mentor."
Edward IV raised his eyebrows, looking at Elena with renewed interest.
"Now I understand how the princess could stop Sir Jon in battle and stand against him. It was impressive."
Elena felt the weight of all eyes on her. Her face remained serene, but inside a whirlwind of emotions shook her. Jon was her cousin. Her blood. And yet… the way she looked at him had nothing to do with family ties.
Jon, lost in his thoughts, remembered something.
⸻
Flashback – Seven years ago
Jon was twelve years old. He trained with a wooden sword in the backyard of his house. Enrique watched him from the side, arms crossed and a proud smile.
"You're not my best disciple," Enrique said suddenly.
Jon stopped, surprised.
"What?"
Enrique laughed.
"I have a disciple almost your same age. She's as incredible as you… maybe more. She uses the two-sword style. She's ambidextrous."
Jon's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"That's amazing! I'd like to meet her."
Enrique ruffled his hair affectionately.
"Maybe someday you'll meet her."
⸻
Jon blinked, returning to the present. His gaze settled on Elena.
It was you.
Elena felt his gaze like a physical weight. Something in her chest tightened.
⸻
Edward IV cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
"Ambassador de Lezcano, what is Navarre's position on this conflict?"
Don Fernando stood, hand over his heart.
"King Alfonso III of Navarre has declared he will stand with whoever goes after Enrique. Ten years ago, it was Enrique who liberated Navarre from being subjugated by Aragon. My king is a just man, and his loyalty is unwavering."
Edward nodded, satisfied.
"King Alfonso has always been noble. It was to be expected of him."
⸻
At that instant, Elizabeth of York, who had remained silent throughout the entire conversation, felt the world crumbling around her.
Her thoughts were chaos. Images of Jon besieged her: his serene face, his firm body, the way he moved with that silent authority that disarmed her. She felt a wet heat between her legs, a desire so intense it shamed her to tears.
What is this I'm feeling? What's happening to me?
She felt vulgar. Vile. As if her own body betrayed her.
She couldn't bear it anymore.
She stood abruptly, making all eyes turn toward her. Her face was flushed, her eyes shone with a mixture of shame and desperation.
Her gaze sought Jon, but she could barely hold it.
Elena noticed. And something dark twisted in her chest.
Elizabeth made a trembling bow.
"Excuse me, Your Majesty. I feel indisposed. With your permission, I withdraw."
Edward nodded, concerned.
"Go, daughter."
Elizabeth left with hurried steps, almost running. Her heels resonated on the marble like hammer blows. She crossed the corridors with agitated breathing, not looking at anyone.
She ran into Sir Cedric Ravenshaw, the fleet admiral, who greeted her with a bow, but she didn't see him. She couldn't see anything but Jon's face engraved in her mind like fire.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the council, Arvel broke the silence.
"If you're Enrique's son, why did you try to attack us?"
Jon looked at him coldly.
"Because you attacked first. And I always suspected it was Castile who took my father… for having a son with an English peasant woman."
Arvel nodded slowly.
"I understand."
At that instant, the doors burst open.
Sir Cedric Ravenshaw entered with firm step, requesting permission with a respectful gesture. He stopped upon seeing the macabre scene: the table stained with blood, the floor still wet, the Aragonese ambassador's head in a corner.
But he said nothing.
"Your Majesty," he announced in a grave voice, "Prince Alasdair MacGregor of Scotland has arrived at the ports. He comes as ambassador of his country, accompanied by Broderick McTavish, commander of the Royal Guard of Scotland, along with a retinue of fifteen soldiers on a diplomatic vessel. They also bring with them Master of War Hamish Drummond, strategist of the Scottish crown."
Edward nodded.
"Let him be informed when he arrives at the palace. I will receive him immediately."
Cedric bowed and left.
Moments later, two servants entered timidly. Upon seeing the blood, they were horrified, but said nothing. They began cleaning in silence, with rags and buckets of water.
Bishop Godfrey made the sign of the cross as he watched them work.
"May God forgive us for what we have witnessed today."
Lord Richard Neville, the treasurer, drummed his fingers on the table, restless.
"Your Majesty, a war with Aragon will be costly. We must prepare the funds immediately."
Edward looked at him severely.
"Prepare them, Neville. And don't suggest again that we sell a man's life for gold."
Neville lowered his head, but his eyes shone with cold resentment. He would not forget that humiliation.
⸻
Elizabeth reached her room and closed the door forcefully. She breathed heavily, heart racing.
"Withdraw," she ordered the servants inside. "I need to be alone."
The women left quickly, closing the door behind them.
Elizabeth let herself fall on the bed, covering her face with her hands. Her body burned. She felt an unbearable heat between her legs, a desire that consumed her like fire.
She bit her lip, trembling.
What am I doing? Why do I feel this way?
Her hands lowered slowly, brushing her own body. She touched her neck, shoulders, chest. Her breathing became labored.
She closed her eyes, and saw Jon. His face. His gaze. His voice.
Her fingers descended further, sliding under the corset, caressing her burning skin.
A moan escaped her lips.
"Jon…" she whispered, voice broken.
She hated herself. But she couldn't contain herself.
⸻
Jon was before her, but for a second his image changed. His hair darkened, his garments seemed darker and tighter, as if the air itself had molded them to his body; his skin became paler… but his face remained the same.
Elena blinked, confused.
What was that?
"Princess," the king insisted.
Elena shook her head, recovering.
"In three days I will sail back to Castile, Your Majesty. But supporting Aragon is not in my plans. My priority is my uncle Enrique."
William Hastings nodded.
"I suggest Sir Alaric accompany her, to reinforce the alliance."
Alaric nodded.
"And I suggest taking Sir Jon with me."
Edward smiled.
"Approved. And I will send an elite retinue to Ashwick for Jon's mother."
Jon bowed his head, grateful.
The king stood.
"This council has ended. Prepare for war."
And with those words, the destiny of three kingdoms was sealed.