Chapter 1: Arrival & the Oaths

The four private jets landed within an hour of each other on the island’s single runway. Each bore the discreet insignia of its nation. No press, no aides, only the men themselves, summoned by encrypted messages they could not ignore.

Victoria watched their arrival from the terrace of the rebuilt grand hall. She wore a sheer white gown, almost bridal, deliberately ironic. Cut low to reveal the full, heavy curves of her breasts and the faint silver lines on her abdomen from the triplets. Her body was no longer the taut vessel of two years ago; it was riper, stronger, a testament to what it had endured and conquered.

The Institute maintained several bases worldwide, each tailored to specific cycles. This time she had chosen the island: remote; luxurious; inescapable once the sea lanes closed.

She did not greet them at the dock.

Instead, they were escorted in silence through the lush gardens to the hall’s entrance. The doors opened onto a vast circular chamber. At its centre, an enormous round bed draped in black silk, piled with pillows in the colours of their nations: Union red, Scottish blue, Welsh green, Irish orange. Above the bed, four flags hung from the vaulted ceiling: the Union Jack, the Saltire, the Red Dragon, the Ulster Banner. They swayed gently in the conditioned air.

Victoria stood on a low dais beside the bed. Backlit by hidden spotlights. The white gown clung to her like mist.

The four men entered together but kept instinctive distance: Langley in the lead, Macrae to his right, Llewelyn and Ó Néill flanking.

“Gentlemen,” she said, voice warm and welcoming, as if hosting a state dinner. “Thank you for coming so promptly. The United Kingdom faces a constitutional crisis of unprecedented delicacy. Your presence is ... essential.”