Reform Party HQ, London
The screen flickered in pubs and kitchens across the isles. The BBC's familiar opening chime gave way to a solemn-voiced anchor:
"Good evening. We begin with breaking news from Westminster. Collin Fairfax, Reform MP for Essex, has been formally expelled from the party following an internal vote. Senior officials accused Mr. Fairfax of pursuing his own political ambitions rather than the unity of the movement. Supporters of Mr. Fairfax, however, insist he is the only credible figure capable of guiding Britain through this period of crisis. We recall that Fairfax has been a central opponent of Reform leader, Prime Minister Elen Ross, tabling two motions of no confidence against her government"
Images played: Fairfax leaving Reform headquarters, stone-faced, pursued by journalists. He stops for a brief statement, discontent shimmering in his eyes.
"We are witnessing the unfolding of a coup in real time. After barely surviving two no-confidence votes, she has declared a state of emergency, appointed her own generals, and undone centuries of stability under the Crown in an instant. And now we live in... a British Republic? But what kind of republic is this if the Parliament is sidelined and one person rules by decree? Elen Ross has suspended our democratic institutions and claimed authority for herself. My expulsion from the party today only confirms what we saw: a dictator consolidating power. I fear I may soon be arrested for speaking the truth, but I will not be silent. Britain is no longer a democracy."
The anchor continued:
"This comes as the international community grows increasingly alarmed by the situation in Britain. The European Union has urged an immediate return to constitutional order, the White House has called for restraint, and the United Nations Security Council is set to debate emergency measures later tonight. Some allies, speaking privately, say they are deeply concerned about the stability of Britain's nuclear deterrent."
The camera cut to vox pops: a Londoner shaking her head — "It's chaos. I don't know who's in charge anymore." A Welsh man waving a flag — "About time. Let the old order fall apart."
The anchor's words lingered as the picture faded:
"The question, tonight, is simple: who speaks for Britain?"
Ottawa, Canada
Far from the chaos of the British Isles and their militarized unity, the streets of Ottawa buzzed with celebration. A sense of national pride was in the air as Canada positioned itself as the new epicenter of the Commonwealth of Nations. King William's private plane touched down at the Macdonald–Cartier International Airport, broadcast live on multiple networks, and hundreds of locals gathered to witness history unfolding before their eyes.
Flanked by his Royal Guard, the King walked to a state-owned limousine sent by the government, cheers swelling around him. Televised coverage followed his journey through Ottawa streets to Rideau Hall, the marble halls of Canada's Crown estate.
For the first time since his removal from office at the hands of Elen Ross, King William spoke. The moment came on what social media had already dubbed "The Friday of Roses" — a day immortalized after Elen famously tossed a bucket of red roses at the King following his abdication, a moment captured by BBC cameras and quickly trending online with #FridayOfRoses.
The King's voice was heavy, deliberate:
"Dear Canadians, I am honoured to be here today, and I am deeply grateful for the warm reception I have received from all of you. Today, it is with great pride that I announce the dissolution of the office of Governor General. The head-of-state responsibilities in Canadian affairs will henceforth be overseen directly by me, as King of Canada.
"However, make no mistake — I look to Britain with a heavy heart, and to the future that Elen Ross is shaping under her rule. I must be clear: a restoration of the monarchy in the British Isles is necessary for the stability of our nation, and we will channel all our efforts toward making it possible."
God save the King.
Dublin, Ireland
Surprise rippled through the halls of the Taoiseach. Perhaps for the first time since independence, Ireland was preparing to speak loudly and clearly on a British matter. Uncertainty hung in the air, yet the Irish people's eyes turned north, toward their brothers still under London rule. Sympathy for their Celtic cousins was expected — but what followed went beyond expectation. Prime Minister Ó hAodha stepped up to the microphone.
"Friends, fellow citizens, it is with grave concern that Ireland observes developments in our neighbor, our sister nation. The United Kingdom's security forces have moved with unnecessary force against Scottish, Welsh, Cornish, and Manx protests— and, most painfully, against our brothers in the North.
"That happened days ago. Now, the United Kingdom is gone, replaced by a British Republic that promises a federal democracy, yet is ruled by the authoritarian hand of Elen Ross and her Emergency Orders. Prime Minister Ross, we must ask: is your tolerance toward Celtic nations a facade? Because if it is, Ireland will act to protect its kin. We will not hesitate to deploy troops, if necessary.
"Ireland stands with Scotland. We stand with Wales, with Cornwall, with the Isle of Man. Most importantly, the Irish people stand with their brothers and sisters in Northern Ireland. We do not mourn the loss of the monarchy, the crown that once shackled our nation and plunged us into famine.
"But if the new British Republic seeks Ireland's recognition, it must take immediate steps to improve the situation of its Celtic nations. We do not wish to see Britain fractured, but if Scotland and Wales seek independence, Ireland will recognize it. If Cornwall and the Isle of Man seek self-determination, we will help them achieve it. If Northern Ireland chooses reunification, we will march toward Belfast.
"London is offered a choice: recognition, or reprisal. There is no middle ground."
Ó hAodha stepped away from the podium. The cameras followed him, hungry for reaction. His smile was steady for the lenses. Far from the eyes of the press and fellow MPs, however, a private satisfaction tugged one corner of his mouth. They remained blissfully unaware of Ireland's role in the Friday of Roses; the theatre had played, the pact had not.
In the corridor behind the press gallery, Ó hAodha shut the door and passed a folded note to a waiting aide. Áine's hand closed on it without looking up. "Troops?" she asked softly.
"Not yet," he said. "First the vote. Then the routes open."
She nodded. The cameras could still see the performance; the plan moved in silence.
London
They sat across from me in the council chamber: three envoys in tailored suits, eyes sharp, voices measured. The American spoke first, as I expected.
"Prime Minister Ross," he began, deliberate, "our governments require clarity. Emergency Orders cannot replace democracy indefinitely. We need assurances on three fronts: the return to democratic order, the safety of Britain's nuclear arsenal, and the independence of Parliament."
Ah. American arrogance in full bloom — always ready to lecture, never ready to look inward. The words almost slipped out of me, but I swallowed them and smiled instead: the practiced, polite smile I'd honed in mirrors and on the campaign trail.
"You will have your assurances. The Orders are temporary. Parliament will reconvene, and elections will follow. But survival comes before ceremony."
He kept pressing, unconvinced. "If I'm being honest," he said, "the United States has long stood with the United Kingdom. Morally, the White House views this regime change with concern. But we are prepared to see how this British Republic will tread — bearing in mind that restoration of the monarchy remains on the table."
A dragon stirred in my chest. I felt heat behind my teeth and forced it down, answering with an iciness that barely concealed my contempt.
"Sir, you would do well to remember the consequences of inaction. King William staying on the throne would have fractured this country. I stopped that collapse. A federal republic is the only framework that will hold the islands together as they demand their identities be recognised."
He looked unconvinced, almost bored, while the German and French envoys stiffened.
The American leaned back, voice laced with mockery. "Yes, the cultural revival of Celtic nations in Britain is… sudden. Almost fabricated. As if someone has been moving pieces on a chessboard. Scotland, Wales — fine. But Cornwall? The Isle of Man? That's like Texas or Hawaii suddenly declaring themselves sovereign nations. Really?"
I forced down a chuckle. "Sometimes nations get tired of being treated like punchlines. Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, the Isle of Man — they've all endured centuries of dismissal, and now they are awake. And if we fail to adapt, Britain doesn't just risk splintering into three countries. We risk five. Because the Manx will not allow themselves to be absorbed by anyone else.
"So tell me, what would the United States do then? Send warships up the Thames as you once sent them into the Middle East? March in, defeat every independence movement, and stitch Britain back together under a puppet crown?"
My words hung in the air, sharp enough to sting. The American ambassador smirked, half amused, half offended. The French and German envoys stared, shocked that I would challenge Washington so openly on my own soil.
No one spoke, so I drove the point home. "Britain will have elections. The people will decide their future. Until then, I will not permit this country to collapse into anarchy."
The French finally pressed, his voice brittle: "And the deterrent? Who has control? Can you assure us—"
I cut him off, cold and decisive. "Control is absolute. Safe. Stable. No one should doubt it. Britain remains a responsible nuclear power."
The three exchanged wary looks. Unconvinced, yes — but unwilling to push further. I allowed myself the faintest smile. They needed my reassurances far more than I needed their approval.
Russian Embassy in London
That evening I drove to the Russian embassy. The building loomed behind a wrought-iron fence, its façade imposing under the pale streetlights. Security cameras blinked intermittently from corners, guards in dark coats patrolling the perimeter with deliberate steps.
A personal invitation had come through a backchannel; the hounds were hungry and saw an opportunity. Their mouths watered at the thought of tearing a hole into the Western order they despised. I knew what they wanted. Aligning with them was as abhorrent as aligning with Washington — perhaps worse. The Kremlin's record of cultural and linguistic suppression, its brutal treatment of Siberian peoples, its long shadow over Poles, Finns, Balts, Caucasians, Romanians, Ukrainians — Westminster's reflection, but darker — was everything I had sworn to resist.
And yet, diplomacy demands sacrifice. A strong country needs strong allies. Those thoughts walked with me through the marble halls of the embassy as I went to meet their ambassador — a meeting that could tilt Britain's global alignment. Britain, for now, remained blissfully unaware.
"Madame Ross," the ambassador greeted me, smooth as oil, "Russia understands that revolutions are rarely welcomed by the old order. Recognition is possible. Trade, energy, security guarantees. You need not stand alone."
I leaned forward, letting silence hang before I spoke. "Britain will never be anyone's puppet. Not Russia's, not America's. But I will not leave my people without allies. If the West doubts my legitimacy, I will accept support where I find it — on my terms."
He studied me, perhaps expecting hesitation. Instead, I held his gaze.
"Mutual benefit, then," he said, smiling thinly. "In return, Moscow asks only for consultation on key questions of European security."
"Alignment," I voiced. Then I set my hand flat on the table, my voice edged with steel. "No Russian troops will ever stand on British soil. No foreign adviser will dictate terms in Westminster. Our nuclear arsenal will remain under sovereign control, untouchable. And the Celtic revival is not to be tampered with. These are red lines. If Moscow can respect them, then yes — we can speak of alignment. If not, you will find Britain as immovable as the cliffs of Dover."
The ambassador's smile barely shifted, but I saw the flicker in his eyes. He had not expected bluntness, not from a British leader.
I let the silence stretch. Then, with finality, I added: "Mutual benefit, yes. But Britain will not bow again. Not to kings, not to presidents, not to tsars."
His reply was calm, but the calculation in his tone was unmistakable. "A woman of conviction. Moscow can work with that."
In that moment, an uneasy alliance was born. And I couldn't help but wonder: was I still Alwenna from Butetown beneath the mask of Elen Ross, or had the shackles of power — and the compromises required to preserve it — already consumed what was left of me?
Westminster — Commons Chamber
In Westminster, tension hung thick over the Commons chamber. From my seat, I could still hear Essex's BBC interview, grandly declaring Britain no longer a democracy and fearing I might soon arrest him. And now look at him — bloated, pink, shimmering with satisfaction as he prepared to be sworn in as transitional president. I felt the amusement of a passerby watching a stray dog finally stop barking after being tossed a scrap. Ten steps ahead, you bloody fool.
The Speaker called the chamber to order, his gavel tapping insistently against the desk. One by one, MPs rose to take their seats, murmurs rippling through the aisles. The clerks unfurled the official scrolls, and Fairfax moved toward the dais, adjusting his tie with exaggerated care. Cameras swiveled; reporters scribbled feverishly.
He raised his right hand, voice slightly shaky but determined: "I, Collin Fairfax, do solemnly swear to uphold the duties entrusted to me as Interim President of the British Republic…"
I stifled a laugh, noting the subtle twitch in his eye as he paused, glancing nervously at the Speaker. His bloated visage tried to hide the terror beneath the pomp, the irony of being elevated to a position I had carefully choreographed.
When he completed the oath, a ceremonial bell rang, and the chamber erupted. English benches cheered, some pounding tables in triumph, waving notes and fists as if this small pageant had restored centuries of order. A few Reform defectors sat stone-faced, already regretting the split, glances flicking toward me like wounded animals. The Celtic MPs looked on in silence — some grim, some openly hostile, their restraint as sharp as any blade.
The ceremonial hammer of the Speaker signaled the conclusion of the swearing-in. Fairfax stepped down from the dais, shaking hands, bowing slightly to MPs, all while maintaining a forced smile that did nothing to mask the underlying unease. Reporters outside relayed the news instantly. Brussels and Washington exhaled; finally, a figure they could deal with.
I let the moment stretch, savoring the absurdity of it all. Fairfax was a man who had grandly proclaimed Britain's democracy dead, and yet here he was — elevated to a seat of power he could barely wield, under the shadow of the woman who had orchestrated it.