Elizabeth couldn't contain herself.
Her body moved by instinct, betraying every lesson of protocol she had learned since childhood. Her hands shot toward Jon, clinging to his waist with a desperation she didn't understand. She pushed him against the stone wall with more force than intended.
Jon's back hit the wall. Air escaped him in a muffled gasp.
"Don't say anything," Elizabeth whispered, voice broken, trembling. "Please… just… don't say anything."
Her mind screamed. What am I doing? What the hell is happening to me? But her body wouldn't obey. She couldn't stop. She didn't know how.
And then, without thinking, her pelvis pressed against his.
Jon froze, eyes wide open. Confusion paralyzed him for an instant that felt eternal.
But it was only an instant.
Something inside him activated. The warrior. The strategist. The man who had survived battles by evaluating impossible situations in fractions of seconds.
He recovered his composure with the speed of tempered steel.
His hand rose, serene but firm, and took Elizabeth's face by the chin. He forced her to look at him. His fingers were soft but unbreakable.
Elizabeth didn't expect it.
She looked up, and her green eyes—bright with desire, burning with shame—met his.
Jon looked at her fixedly. Without emotion. Without judgment. Only cold, calculated evaluation.
He understood the situation in a second: She's the princess. If someone sees us like this, it will destroy her. Her reputation will collapse. And I… I'll be executed for dishonoring her.
He opened his mouth to speak, to gently push her away, to save what remained of this moment before it became scandal.
But then he saw her.
Not Elizabeth.
Her.
The image arrived like lightning piercing his skull.
A small face. Childlike. But so similar to Elizabeth's it could have been her reflection in a mirror of time.
Copper hair falling in soft curls over tiny shoulders. Green eyes shining with an innocence that disarmed the soul. Delicate features, beautiful. Skin white as freshly fallen snow.
But she was a child.
No more than five or six years old.
And she was in a place Jon didn't recognize. A strange place. Walls shining with a white that wasn't stone or wood or fabric. Lights burning without fire, without smoke, without torches—as if the sun itself had been captured in transparent spheres. The child wore clothes of bright colors, of soft materials Jon had never seen.
Nothing about that place belonged to his world.
Nothing… except the child.
She looked at him. Directly at him. Smiling with a smile that contained all the universe's love.
And behind her…
The vision expanded.
A woman. With dark hair and golden eyes that shone like embers under the impossible light. She held the child against her chest, protecting her, loving her. And beside the woman, a man. Tall. With the same golden eyes. One hand rested on the woman's shoulder. The other caressed the child's hair.
All three smiled.
A family.
And Jon felt his heart squeeze inside his chest as if an invisible hand crushed it until his ribs cracked.
His eyes moistened without permission. His throat closed in a brutal knot that almost prevented him from breathing.
It was love.
But not love for Elizabeth.
It was love for her. For that child whose face he shouldn't know. For that little one who existed somewhere in time that hadn't yet arrived. For that family his soul recognized though his mind couldn't comprehend it.
A deep love. Pure. Absolute.
A love that hurt more than any battle wound because he didn't understand where it came from, or why he felt it so strongly, or how it was possible to love something that didn't exist.
Who are you?
The question resonated in his mind like a silent scream, but it had no answer.
Only that sweet and devastating pain that burned his chest like fire and ice at the same time.
⸻
Elizabeth watched him, confused.
She saw how something changed in Jon's eyes. She saw how the calculating coldness shattered like glass under pressure, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable, more human.
She saw how a tear rolled down his cheek without him seeming to notice.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask what was happening to him, what he saw, what tore him apart from within.
But before she could utter a word, Jon pulled her toward him.
He wrapped her in an embrace so strong, so desperate, it seemed he wanted to merge with her. His arms surrounded her as if he feared she would disappear if he let go. His head bent against Elizabeth's hair, and his breathing came out labored, trembling, broken.
He didn't want to let go.
He couldn't let go.
Because in that instant, embracing her, he felt that somehow twisted and inexplicable he was embracing the child from the vision. That small being who had awakened in him a love that had no name. That family his heart knew but his mind couldn't reach.
⸻
Elizabeth felt how the arms she had wrapped around Jon's waist fell, loose, inert.
Surprise left her paralyzed.
This wasn't what she had expected.
It wasn't the physical desire that had consumed her lately. It wasn't the runaway passion that had pushed her to act without thinking. It wasn't lust or obsession or madness.
This was… something else.
Something softer. Deeper. More real.
She felt Jon's body heat against hers, but it wasn't the heat of desire. It was the heat of need. Of vulnerability. Of someone clinging to another person as if they were the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
She felt how he trembled against her. Barely. Almost imperceptible. But there.
And something inside Elizabeth—something that had remained dormant beneath layers of protocol and duty and expectations—awakened.
The desire—burning, obsessive, irrational—began to transform.
It didn't disappear. It didn't extinguish.
It softened. It deepened. It became something more complex, more dangerous, more beautiful.
As if the wild flame that had consumed her had been tempered by something stronger: understanding.
Love.
Not the childish love of fairy tales that ladies-in-waiting whispered in gardens. Not the courtly love that troubadours sang at banquets.
But the love born when you see someone in their most vulnerable moment and all you want is to protect them. When you stop wanting to possess them and start wanting simply to be there, holding them, being enough.
The love that hurts because you know it's not reciprocated the same way.
The love that remains anyway.
Elizabeth slowly raised her hands, hesitant, and rested them against Jon's back. She embraced him back. Gently. As if he were something fragile that could break.
And in that silent Westminster corridor, under the dying torchlight, two souls met in a way neither expected.
Not with passion.
With something much more dangerous.
With understanding.
⸻
The moment stretched, suspended in time like a drop of amber preserving something fragile and precious.
But finally, Jon blinked.
The vision faded like smoke between fingers. The strange place, the impossible lights, the green-eyed child, the family his heart recognized… everything dissolved.
Only Elizabeth remained in his arms.
The Princess of England. The king's daughter.
The woman he had just embraced with an intimacy that could cost him his life.
Jon separated abruptly, stepping back as if burned. Panic pierced his chest like a spear.
What have I done?
He dropped to his knees on the stone floor, head bowed, hands resting on his thighs.
"Your Highness," he said, voice hoarse, laden with shame. "I beg your forgiveness. I shouldn't have… I didn't mean to…"
"Jon."
His name on her lips sounded different. Softer. Closer.
"Look up."
Jon obeyed slowly, barely raising his eyes without lifting his head.
Elizabeth looked at him from above. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with shame. With something warmer. Her lips curved in a small smile, almost sad.
"You don't need to kneel," she said, voice gentle. "The corridor is empty. No one saw us. No one will know."
She paused, and her smile widened barely.
"And even if someone had seen… they wouldn't think badly of you."
Jon blinked, confused.
"But, Your Highness… what I just did is…"
"It was an embrace," Elizabeth interrupted, extending a hand toward him. "Nothing more. And nothing less."
Jon looked at the extended hand. White. Delicate. Firm.
Slowly, he took it and stood.
Elizabeth didn't release his hand immediately. She held it a second longer, squeezing barely, as if wanting to transmit something words couldn't express.
Then she released it and adjusted her dress with measured movements, recovering a princess's composure.
"Walk with me through the corridors," she said, tone that didn't admit refusal but didn't sound like an order either. "As my escort."
Jon nodded, still processing what had just happened.
"As you command, Your Highness."
⸻
They walked in silence through Westminster's corridors.
Torches projected elongated shadows on stone walls. The echo of their footsteps resonated in the emptiness, marking a constant rhythm that contrasted with the chaos of thoughts in both minds.
Elizabeth walked with the perfect posture of a court lady, hands clasped before her, head held high. But inside, her mind was a whirlwind.
What was that? Why did he embrace me like that?
These weren't questions of casual curiosity. They were questions born from something deeper. From the need to understand this man who had disarmed her in ways no one else had.
Jon walked half a step behind, hand resting on his sword's hilt by instinct. His face was an imperturbable mask, but his mind remained trapped in the vision.
The child. The family. What does all this mean?
He had no answers. Only inexplicable certainties that burned his chest.
They turned down a corridor leading toward the royal quarters when they heard voices approaching from the opposite direction.
Elizabeth tensed barely. Jon became alert.
And then, rounding the corner, appeared King Edward IV, accompanied by Sir Geoffrey Hawke and…
Hamish Drummond.
Scotland's master of war.
⸻
All four stopped simultaneously.
King Edward evaluated them with penetrating gaze, immediately noting his daughter's presence in the corridors at this hour of night, escorted by the newly appointed knight.
But he said nothing. He only nodded briefly.
"Daughter."
"Father," Elizabeth responded, making a perfect curtsy.
Jon bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty."
The king nodded again and continued on his way, with Geoffrey following closely.
But Hamish Drummond stopped.
His eyes fixed on Elizabeth with an intensity that made Jon's skin crawl immediately.
"Your Highness," Hamish said, voice silky that didn't disguise the hunger behind it. "What a pleasure to find you in the corridors at this hour."
Elizabeth inclined her head in a courteous but cold gesture.
"Master Drummond."
Hamish took a step toward her, completely ignoring Jon as if he were just another column in the corridor.
"Rumors don't do you justice, Your Highness," he continued, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "They say the Princess of England possesses unmatched beauty… but words are poor compared to reality."
His hand rose, and before Elizabeth could retreat, his fingers brushed her hair.
Elizabeth remained motionless, stomach twisting with discomfort.
Hamish wound a copper lock between his fingers, bringing it close to his face as if it were something precious he'd just found.
"This hair…" he murmured, tangling his fingers. "So soft. So perfect. I wonder how it would look spread over silk pillows. So soft… so beautiful…"
His other hand moved, sliding toward Elizabeth's waist.
He touched her. Caressed her. With a familiarity he had no right to have.
Elizabeth felt fear squeeze her throat. She couldn't move. Couldn't scream. He was Scotland's master of war. A potential ally of her father. If she rejected him brusquely, it could create a diplomatic incident.
But then Hamish's hand began to descend.
Lower than any man should touch a princess.
Lower than any honorable man would dare.
Elizabeth opened her mouth, the scream choking in her throat.
And then a hand caught Hamish's wrist in the air.
Jon.
His grip was iron. Unbreakable.
Hamish turned his head sharply, face contorting in fury.
"How dare you…?" he began, believing it was just a simple soldier.
But then he felt something.
A pressure.
Not physical. Not tangible.
But real.
As if the air around Jon had become dense, heavy, impossible to breathe. As if an invisible presence—ancient, powerful, implacable—had awakened and now looked at him with eyes that saw beyond flesh.
Hamish felt fear run up his spine like melting ice.
His knees trembled.
His breathing accelerated.
And without being able to control it, without being able to process it, his survival instinct took control.
He tore himself from Jon's hand, took two stumbling steps backward, and then…
…ran.
His footsteps resonated through the corridors like uneven drum beats, moving farther and faster away, until the echo faded in the distance.
⸻
Elizabeth blinked, processing what had just happened.
She looked at Jon, who remained motionless, hand still extended in the air where he had held Hamish's wrist. His face was a serene mask, but his eyes burned with a cold fury she had never seen before.
And then, unable to contain herself, she laughed.
It was a small laugh at first. Almost hysterical. Releasing accumulated tension, fear, discomfort, everything coming out in the form of sound.
Then it became louder. More genuine.
She brought her hands to her cheeks, wiping away tears that had begun to flow—not from sadness, but from relief and pure surprise at the absurdity of the situation.
"You did it… you made him run," she managed to say between laughs. "Scotland's master of war… ran like a frightened child…"
Jon watched her, expression slowly softening. A small smile, barely perceptible, touched the corners of his lips.
"Your Highness," he said, tone dry but not without humor. "I believe I just created a diplomatic incident."
Elizabeth laughed harder, covering her mouth with both hands.
At that instant, the doors of the knights' dining hall burst open.
Sir Alaric, Broderick McTavish, Prince Alasdair, Arvel… and Elena.
Everyone came out to the corridors, attracted by the sound of the princess's laughter and the echo of someone's hurried footsteps fleeing.
They stood staring at the scene: Elizabeth with flushed cheeks, wiping away tears of laughter. Jon standing beside her, expression serene but alert.
Broderick frowned.
"What the hell…?"
Alasdair looked between them both, with genuine curiosity mixed with something darker.
Arvel simply shrugged, going back through the corridors to enter the dining hall again.
But Elena remained motionless.
Her eyes fixed on Jon. Then on Elizabeth. Then on the way both stood, so close, so… comfortable with each other.
Something twisted in her chest. It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly.
It was… confusion. Unease. A question without an answer she couldn't formulate.
Elizabeth noticed the stares and quickly recovered her composure, straightening her back and adopting a princess's perfect posture.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, voice clear and controlled. "I apologize for the interruption."
She made a brief curtsy toward Alasdair and the others, then turned on her heels and began walking down the corridor.
Jon followed half a step behind, fulfilling his role as escort.
Neither looked back.
Neither noticed how Elena watched them walk away, heart beating faster than it should.
⸻
They walked in silence for several more minutes, until the corridors became more ornate, torches more frequent, signaling they approached the royal wing.
Finally, Elizabeth stopped before a door carved with the York coat of arms.
She turned toward Jon, and for the first time since they had begun walking, she looked directly into his eyes.
"Sir Jon," she said, voice soft but firm. "Would you like to accompany me tomorrow to break our fast?"
Jon blinked, surprised.
"Your Highness?" His tone was cautious. "Wouldn't that be… problematic? For the kingdom. For your father."
Elizabeth smiled. It was a genuine smile, warm, without artifice.
"My father adores you, Jon. You're the hero who defended Ashwick. The man who knelt and swore his sword to the throne when he could have demanded rewards. You're Sir Jon Malverne, Knight of England."
She paused, and her smile became slightly mischievous.
"Besides, technically you're a prince. The son of the hero Enrique de Trastámara. In case you didn't know, he saved my grandfather once twenty years ago. My father said nothing, but my grandfather considered your father as his son, and my father as his brother, as family. There's nothing inappropriate about sharing a meal with family."
Jon was surprised, he knew nothing of what the princess was telling him, but he disguised his surprise and studied her for a moment, searching for some sign of trap, of hidden intention.
But he only saw sincerity.
And perhaps… hope.
Finally, he nodded.
"It will be an honor, Your Highness."
Elizabeth smiled more widely.
"Good. I'll wait for you in the south garden when the sun rises over the walls."
She made a small curtsy—unnecessary, given she was the princess—and then opened the door to her quarters.
Before entering, she turned one last time.
"Thank you, Jon. For tonight. For… everything."
And with that, she disappeared behind the door, leaving him alone in the corridor.
Jon remained motionless for a long moment, processing everything that had happened.
The vision. The child. The embrace. Hamish fleeing. Elizabeth's laughter. Elena's gaze.
And now, an invitation to breakfast.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face.
What's happening?
He had no answers.
Only a certainty that burned his chest with the force of an oath engraved in steel:
Something had changed tonight.
Something that couldn't be undone.
And somehow, somewhere in time that hadn't yet arrived, a green-eyed child smiled.
Waiting for him.