Elizabeth Tudor

Elizabeth Tudor woke gasping, sheets soaked with sweat despite the late autumn chill. The dream—the same one that had haunted her for weeks—lingered with frightening clarity. A man falling from the sky like a meteor. The church roof shattering. His naked form rising from the rubble, skin unmarked despite the impact that should have pulverized any mortal body.

And his name, whispered in her ear by a voice that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of reality itself: *Robert Kestrel*.

"Bess? Are you unwell?"

Catherine Ashley—Kat, her beloved governess—hovered at the bedchamber door, concern etched on her face. Dawn light filtered through the small window of their modest quarters at Hatfield House, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.

"Just a dream," Elizabeth murmured, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her nightgown clung uncomfortably to her slender frame, damp with perspiration despite the chill. "The same one."

Kat's expression tightened with worry. She glanced nervously over her shoulder before closing the door firmly and approaching the bed. "You mustn't speak of these dreams, child. Not to anyone."

Elizabeth nodded, understanding all too well the dangers of appearing... different. Her half-sister Mary had already accused her of witchcraft once before, and whispers of heresy could so easily become shouts. In Edward's England, where religious factions battled for control of the sickly boy-king, such accusations could be fatal.

"I know, Kat. But they feel so real." Elizabeth pressed her palms against her temples. "Last night, I saw him more clearly than ever. He stopped time itself to save me."

Kat's expression grew graver still. "Your Highness—"

"Don't call me that," Elizabeth interrupted sharply. "You know it isn't safe."

Since Edward had taken the throne three years earlier, Elizabeth's position had grown increasingly precarious. Though officially restored to the line of succession, she walked a treacherous path between Protestant and Catholic factions. The Duke of Northumberland's growing influence over her brother threatened to upset the delicate balance that kept her alive.

"Lady Elizabeth," Kat corrected herself, "these visions—they concern me. Perhaps we should consult—"

"No physicians," Elizabeth said firmly. "No priests. No one can know."

She rose from the bed, moving to the small washbasin where she splashed cold water on her face. The shock helped clear the lingering cobwebs of sleep, though the dream's details remained unnervingly sharp.

*Robert Kestrel.* A strange name. Not English, certainly, though she couldn't place its origin. In her dream, he had appeared as a man of perhaps five-and-thirty years, with dark hair and eyes that held knowledge no mortal should possess. He had frozen her attackers with a mere gesture and watched with clinical detachment as she—

Elizabeth shuddered, recalling the violence of her dreamself's actions. The calculated brutality with which she had dispatched her would-be murderers disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Was that truly within her? Such capacity for cold-blooded killing?

"The messenger who arrived last night," Elizabeth said, abruptly changing the subject. "What news?"

Kat hesitated, busying herself with laying out Elizabeth's clothing for the day—a modest gown of dark green wool, suitable for a young noblewoman living in semi-exile from court. "Letters from London. Your brother's health continues to decline."

Elizabeth felt the familiar twist of conflicting emotions. She loved Edward—her sweet, scholarly brother—but his death would thrust England into chaos. Mary would claim the throne, bringing Catholicism back to a nation that had embraced Protestant reforms. Religious war would surely follow, with Elizabeth caught in the bloody middle.

"And the other letter?" Elizabeth pressed, having noticed Kat's careful evasion.

"From Cecil," Kat admitted reluctantly. "He warns that Northumberland's men have been asking questions about your movements. He suggests we relocate immediately."

William Cecil—her most trusted advisor despite his relatively minor position at court—had eyes and ears throughout England. If he counseled immediate relocation, the danger must be imminent.

Elizabeth nodded, a decision crystallizing. "We leave for Woodstock today. Quietly."

"Woodstock? But that's nearly three days' journey, and with such a small household—"

"Precisely why we must go there," Elizabeth interrupted. "Few would think to look for us in such an isolated location, especially with winter approaching." She paused, calculating. "We'll take only you, Thomas Parry, and two guards. The rest of the household remains here to maintain appearances."

Kat looked doubtful. "And if we're intercepted?"

Elizabeth turned from the basin, water dripping from her face. In that moment, with her red-gold hair falling loose around her shoulders and her expression hardened by calculation, she looked uncannily like her father.

"Then I meet my destiny," she said coldly. "One way or another."

* * *

Three days later, Elizabeth sat astride her horse at the edge of a forest, her small party having veered from the main road to avoid a group of mounted men bearing Northumberland's colors. They had been traveling cross-country since dawn, following game trails and farmers' paths rather than the king's highways.

"We should reach Woodstock by nightfall," Thomas Parry murmured, guiding his mount alongside hers. The faithful comptroller of her household had aged visibly during their journey, worry etching new lines around his eyes.

Elizabeth nodded, scanning the treeline with practiced wariness. At seventeen, she had already survived numerous threats to her position and her life. The daughter of Anne Boleyn—the "Great Whore" whose execution had paved the way for Jane Seymour to give Henry his longed-for son—Elizabeth had never known true security.

"We should continue," she said, adjusting her riding gloves. The simple wool dress and hooded cloak she wore marked her as a merchant's daughter rather than a princess of England. Her distinctive Tudor hair remained hidden beneath a plain linen coif. "I mislike the openness of this place."

As they urged their mounts forward, Elizabeth's thoughts returned to the recurring dream. For weeks now, she had seen the same sequence of events—herself surrounded by armed men, on the verge of violation and death, saved by the intervention of a mysterious being named Robert Kestrel.

The dream always ended the same way: with Elizabeth standing amid the carnage she had created, blood-soaked and victorious, offering alliance to a man who was clearly no man at all.

What troubled her most was not the violence or the strangeness of her dream-savior, but the absolute certainty she felt upon waking that the events would come to pass. She had never been prone to superstition or fancy, priding herself on her educated mind and rational thinking. These dreams, however, carried a weight of inevitability that could not be dismissed.

"My lady," called one of the guards, breaking into her thoughts. "Riders approaching from the south."

Elizabeth tensed, immediately alert. "How many?"

"At least twelve, moving fast."

Exchanging a glance with Kat, Elizabeth made a quick decision. "Into the forest. Now."

They urged their horses into the dense woodland, moving as silently as possible through the undergrowth. Behind them, the sound of hoofbeats grew louder. Their pursuers had spotted them.

"Faster," Elizabeth hissed, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.

Their horses struggled through the thick underbrush, the trailing guard repeatedly glancing back at their pursuers. "They're gaining, Your Highness!"

Elizabeth's mind raced through possibilities. Their mounts were tired from the long journey, unlikely to outpace fresh horses. The forest provided some cover, but not enough to lose determined hunters.

Ahead, through a break in the trees, she glimpsed a small stone structure—an old church or chapel, its roof partially collapsed. Something about it sent a jolt of recognition through her. The building from her dreams.

"There," she pointed. "We'll make our stand in the church."

Parry looked alarmed. "My lady, we should continue—"

"The horses are spent, and we're outnumbered," Elizabeth cut him off. "The church offers better defensive position than open forest."

They broke from the treeline, galloping the short distance across open ground to the dilapidated structure. Up close, it appeared even more ancient than Elizabeth had first thought—a Saxon church, perhaps, its stonework weathered by centuries of English seasons. The wooden door hung askew on rusted hinges, and part of the roof had collapsed inward.

As they dismounted, Elizabeth fought to control her rising panic. The scene matched her dream with uncanny precision—the forest clearing, the ancient church, even the angle of sunlight filtering through the autumn leaves. Yet one crucial element was missing: Robert Kestrel, her mysterious savior.

"Thomas, you and Kat take the horses around back," she ordered, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "Find somewhere to conceal yourselves. The guards and I will deal with our visitors."

"My lady, I cannot leave you—" Kat began, her face pale with fear.

"You can and you will," Elizabeth said sharply. "If I fall, someone must carry word to Cecil."

The finality in her tone brooked no argument. As Parry led a reluctant Kat away with the horses, Elizabeth turned to her guards—solid men, loyal to her rather than the factions at court, but only two against what sounded like a dozen approaching riders.

"Inside," she said grimly. "We'll use the walls to our advantage."

The interior of the church smelled of damp stone and rotting wood. Broken pews lay scattered across the dirt floor, and a simple stone altar stood at the far end, a wooden cross hanging askew above it. Elizabeth's gaze was drawn upward to the hole in the roof—the exact spot where, in her dream, Robert Kestrel had crashed through from the heavens.

Distant shouts confirmed their pursuers had reached the clearing. Elizabeth's hands trembled slightly as she drew the dagger concealed in her boot—a gift from Cecil, who understood better than most the precarious position of Henry's younger daughter.

"Your Highness, please take cover," one guard urged, positioning himself near the door with sword drawn.

"My father didn't raise a coward," Elizabeth replied, though she stepped behind a fallen beam that offered some protection. The dagger felt too small in her hand, a pitiful defense against armed men, but she gripped it tightly nonetheless.

The seconds stretched into an eternity as they waited, the only sounds their breathing and the approaching footsteps outside. Elizabeth rehearsed her options: fight, though the outcome was virtually certain; surrender, which would likely mean rape followed by convenient "accident"; or perhaps negotiate, though what leverage she possessed remained unclear.

"Princess Elizabeth!" called a voice from outside. "We know you're within! Come out and you won't be harmed!"

The speaker's tone made a mockery of his words. Elizabeth recognized the cruel intent behind the false assurance—the same tone courtiers used when luring prey into political traps.

"Identify yourselves!" her guard called back. "By whose authority do you pursue a daughter of Henry VIII?"

"By order of the Duke of Northumberland, acting on behalf of His Majesty King Edward VI," came the reply. "The Lady Elizabeth is summoned to London to answer charges of conspiracy against the crown."

Elizabeth's blood ran cold. Such charges—almost certainly fabricated—would provide the legal framework for her destruction. Edward might be persuaded of her guilt, especially in his weakened state. Or worse, the charges might never reach the king's ears at all, with Elizabeth dispatched before she could defend herself.

"These men intend no trial," she whispered to her guards. "They mean to eliminate me before I reach London."

The older guard nodded grimly. "We'll sell our lives dearly, Your Highness."

Outside, the leader's patience had evidently worn thin. "Take the building!" he ordered, and immediately the sound of multiple footsteps surrounded the small church.

The door burst inward, and Elizabeth's guards met the first attackers with steel. The clash of blades echoed off stone walls as the narrow doorway momentarily became the guards' advantage, allowing them to engage only two opponents at once.

Elizabeth pressed herself against the wall, dagger held before her, watching with horrified fascination as the scene from her dreams began to unfold. Her guards fought valiantly but were gradually forced back by superior numbers. One took a sword thrust to the shoulder, crimson immediately soaking his doublet.

When the first guard fell, a sword through his chest, Elizabeth knew the end was approaching. The second continued fighting despite his wound, placing himself between Elizabeth and the attackers, but he too succumbed within minutes, collapsing in a pool of blood at her feet.

Elizabeth stood alone, dagger trembling in her hand, as the men advanced. Their leader—a brutish man with a scar running down his left cheek—smirked as he took in her simple disguise.

"The Tudor whore, attempting to pass as a commoner," he sneered. "How fitting."

Elizabeth raised her chin, summoning every ounce of royal dignity despite her terror. "I am Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of King Henry VIII and rightful princess of England. If you value your lives, you will depart immediately."

The men laughed, the sound echoing off stone walls. "Bold words from a cornered rat," said the leader. "But Northumberland has promised substantial rewards for your elimination."

"My brother the king will have your heads on spikes," Elizabeth said coldly, though she knew Edward likely had no knowledge of this plot.

"The king is dying," said another man, a younger brute with a Yorkshire accent. "And once your Catholic sister takes the throne, the real bloodletting begins. Better to remove you from the game now, before Mary makes you her first target."

Elizabeth's mind raced. These men clearly knew of Edward's deteriorating condition—information closely guarded at court. Their mission came from someone with intimate knowledge of the king's health. Northumberland was consolidating power, eliminating threats before Edward's death threw England into chaos.

"What exactly does the Duke imagine I've done?" she asked, playing for time as her eyes darted around the church interior, seeking any avenue of escape. The hole in the roof drew her gaze again. Where was her dream-savior? Had the visions been nothing but fevered fantasy?

"Conspiring with your sister Mary to restore papal authority in England," replied Scar-face, advancing slowly. "Plotting against the rightful Protestant succession." His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. "Charges sufficient for a traitor's death—though we'll have our sport first."

The naked threat sent ice through Elizabeth's veins, even as anger flared at the absurdity of the accusation. She and Mary barely tolerated each other, their religious differences an unbridgeable chasm. The idea they would conspire together was laughable to anyone with knowledge of the Tudor siblings.

Two men lunged forward suddenly, seizing Elizabeth's arms before she could react. The dagger clattered from her grip as they dragged her toward the center of the church. She struggled wildly, kicking and twisting against their hold, but her slender frame proved no match for their strength.

"Filthy Spanish sympathizer! We'll teach you what happens to Catholic whores!" Scar-face snarled, backhanding her across the face with such force that her vision momentarily darkened. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as her lip split under the impact.

"Please, I've done nothing—" Elizabeth began, not truly begging but seeking to buy precious seconds. Where was Kestrel? Her dreams had been so vivid, so certain.

"Shut your lying mouth," Scar-face barked. "We know you're plotting with your sister Mary to restore the Pope's influence. King Edward's council will thank us for your head."

Another man stepped forward, grinning. "After we've had our fun," he added, triggering coarse laughter from his companions.

Elizabeth's terror threatened to overwhelm her composure, but years of navigating court dangers had taught her to compartmentalize fear. She forced herself to think clearly despite the immediate threat. These men intended to rape and kill her—that much was obvious. Fighting would only increase her suffering, yet surrender was unthinkable.

Her gaze darted to the hole in the church roof again. Still nothing. Had she truly staked her survival on a recurring dream?

"Hold her down. I'll have first turn with the royal cunt," Scar-face ordered.

Rough hands forced her to the ground, tearing at her clothing. The wool dress ripped easily in their grasp, exposing the cream silk chemise beneath—a remnant of her royal status hidden beneath the commoner's disguise. Elizabeth fought with renewed desperation, managing to land a solid kick to Scar-face's groin that doubled him over with a satisfying grunt of pain.

"Look how she fights! The little Tudor bitch has spirit!" one man laughed, catching her flailing arm and pinning it roughly to the ground.

"It's always better when they struggle," another commented, his Yorkshire accent thick with anticipation.

Elizabeth continued her resistance, knowing it was futile yet unable to surrender to her fate. Despite their superior strength, the men found her surprisingly difficult to subdue. She bit one man's hand when he tried to cover her mouth, earning a howl of pain and a vicious backhand that snapped her head to the side.

As they tore at her chemise, exposing her shoulder and the upper curve of her breast, Elizabeth's desperation peaked. This couldn't be how her story ended—violated and murdered in an abandoned church, her body left for wolves and crows. She was meant for greater things; she had always known it, felt it in the marrow of her bones.

Through the struggle, her eyes remained fixed on the hole in the roof, watching clouds drift across the autumn sky. And then, in a moment of perfect clarity amid the chaos, she remembered the exact words from her dream: *"Mr. Kestrel! Help me! Please!"*

With nothing left to lose, Elizabeth called out. "Mr. Kestrel! Help me! Please!"

Her attackers paused momentarily, exchanging confused glances.

"Who the fuck is she talking to?" one muttered.

Hope flared briefly, then dimmed as seconds passed with no response. Elizabeth felt tears threatening—not of fear but of bitter disappointment. The dreams had been nothing but fevered fantasy after all. She was alone, as she had always been.

A rough hand gripped her jaw, forcing her face upward. "Who the fuck are you talking to, witch?" Scar-face demanded, following his question with a punch to her stomach that drove the air from her lungs.

Despite the pain, Elizabeth straightened, spitting blood onto the ground rather than showing weakness. She had resolved to die with dignity if die she must, denying these brutes the satisfaction of breaking her spirit.

The display of defiance earned her another blow, this one to her ribs. Pain lanced through her side, sharp enough to suggest at least one rib had cracked. Still, Elizabeth maintained her composure, channeling the indomitable will that had allowed her to survive the treacherous waters of Tudor politics.

"Mr. Kestrel!" she called again, voice stronger this time despite the pain. "I know you're there!"

The leader seized her hair, yanking her head back sharply. "The bitch has lost her mind," he sneered, drawing his dagger. "Perhaps we should cut out her tongue before we begin."

As the blade hovered near her face, Elizabeth noticed movement in the shadows near the altar. A figure was rising from the rubble—a naked man, his skin unmarked despite being covered in dust and debris from the collapsed roof. Dark hair framed a face of classical beauty, with features that might have been carved by Michelangelo himself.

Relief flooded through Elizabeth with such force that she nearly wept. "You've finally arrived," she gasped, unable to keep the emotion from her voice despite years of practiced royal control. "Please—"

Scar-face's backhand caught her across the face, splitting her lip further. Fresh blood sprayed from the wound, spattering her torn clothing. "Who the fuck are you talking to, witch?" he demanded, following his question with a punch to her stomach that doubled her over.

Despite the blow, Elizabeth straightened again, spitting blood onto the ground. Her eyes remained fixed on the naked stranger, who now stood fully upright, observing the scene with detached curiosity. None of her attackers seemed to notice him, their attention focused entirely on their intended victim.

Two men pinned her arms while another tore at her skirts, exposing her legs. Elizabeth continued fighting, even as she kept her gaze locked on the mysterious figure who was now approaching with unhurried steps. She knew, with bone-deep certainty, that this was Robert Kestrel—the being from her dreams, arrived precisely when her need was greatest.

"Hold her legs apart," Scar-face ordered, unlacing his breeches. "Let's see if royal blood makes her cunt any different than a tavern whore's."

The men forced her to the ground, two holding her arms while two others grappled with her legs. Despite being physically outmatched, Elizabeth continued fighting—biting, kicking, and thrashing with the last reserves of her strength.

"The King will have you flayed alive for this," she spat, blood from her split lip speckling her teeth.

The men laughed. "King Edward's too busy coughing up his lungs to care about his bastard sister," Scar-face sneered, freeing his erect cock from his breeches. "And once we deliver your head to the Duke of Northumberland, he'll thank us for removing another Catholic threat."

Elizabeth's struggles intensified as the man knelt between her forcibly spread legs. Her chemise had been pushed up to her waist, exposing her from the waist down save for torn linen undergarments that one of the men was now cutting away with a dagger.

"I'll see every one of you hang for this," she promised, her voice steady despite her position. "Your families will watch you choke and shit yourselves on the gibbet."

The words earned her another backhanded slap that rocked her head to the side, though she immediately turned back to face her attacker, blood trickling from her nose to join that already flowing from her split lip.

Kestrel had nearly reached them now, his expression one of mild curiosity rather than urgent concern. Elizabeth realized he would not act without direct appeal—exactly as in her dream.

"Robert Kestrel!" she called out, her voice carrying the authority that would one day command a nation. "I know what you are. Help me now, and I swear by all that's holy, I'll grant you anything within my power when I take the throne!"

The declaration was bold, presumptuous even—claiming a crown that might never be hers. Yet Elizabeth spoke with absolute conviction, channeling the certainty she had felt in her dreams that she would indeed rule England one day.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a casual gesture from Kestrel, all thirteen men froze in place—a tableau of violence suspended in time, with only their eyes moving, widening in terror as they found themselves suddenly paralyzed.

"That's better," Kestrel said, approaching the group. His voice carried an accent Elizabeth couldn't place—not quite English, yet speaking the language with perfect fluency. "Less noise, more conversation."

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, hastily pulling her torn clothing to cover herself. Despite her disheveled appearance and obvious trauma, she composed herself with practiced royal discipline, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin with the dignity drilled into her since childhood. Blood still flowed from her split lip and nose, and bruises were forming across her exposed skin, but she carried herself as though addressing court rather than standing half-dressed in a ruined church.

"Thank you, Mr. Kestrel," she said, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her hand. The gesture left a crimson streak across her pale skin.

Kestrel tilted his head, studying her with inhuman intensity. "You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "You know my name, yet I don't recall making your acquaintance." He gestured at his naked form with mild amusement. "Forgive my appearance. Interdimensional displacement tends to incinerate clothing."

Elizabeth blushed slightly at his nudity but maintained direct eye contact with impressive determination. Her gaze briefly flicked over his nude body—a clinical assessment rather than lewd interest—before returning to his face.

"I am Elizabeth Tudor, daughter of King Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn," she said with practiced formality, as though delivering a court introduction rather than standing in a ruined church surrounded by telekinetically paralyzed would-be rapists.

The being before her seemed to process this information with unnatural speed, his eyes revealing calculations beyond human capacity. "Ah. Not yet Queen Elizabeth, then. Your sickly half-brother Edward still occupies the throne." He circled the frozen men, examining them with mild interest. "Political assassination disguised as banditry. How tediously predictable."

"You know of me?" Elizabeth asked, unable to hide her surprise.

"I know of many things," Kestrel replied vaguely, his attention seeming to focus on something beyond physical sight. After a moment, he returned his penetrating gaze to Elizabeth. "How do you know my name?"

The question was direct, lacking the courtly circumlocution Elizabeth was accustomed to. She hesitated, weighing truth against fabrication, before deciding honesty was likely the wisest approach with this clearly inhuman being.

"I... had a dream. Many dreams, actually. You were in them, helping me secure England's future." She straightened further, ignoring the blood that continued to trickle from her nose and split lip. "I know this sounds like madness, but when those men captured me, I knew—I absolutely knew—you would be here. In this place, at this time."

Kestrel's expression revealed nothing, though his eyes seemed to assess her at levels beyond mere physical observation. "And what were you offering me just now?" he asked, amusement coloring his tone. "Anything within your power when you take the throne, I believe?"

Elizabeth met his gaze directly, her calculating intelligence visible beneath royal poise. Blood continued to drip from her split lip, but she made no move to wipe it away, as though acknowledging her injuries would diminish her authority.

"Yes. I have little to offer now—I'm a princess in name only, with no wealth or property of my own. But I will be Queen of England one day, and my gratitude would be... substantial."

Kestrel laughed, the sound startling in the church's hushed atmosphere. Several birds took flight from rafters at the sudden noise. "Such certainty from someone moments away from violation and beheading," he observed. "What makes you think your future is so assured?"

"The same certainty that told me you would be here," she replied without hesitation. "The same certainty that tells me you are not human, Mr. Kestrel, whatever appearance you wear."

A smile played across Kestrel's perfect features. "And if I want everything?" he asked, his tone deliberately provocative. "What then, Your Majesty?"

Elizabeth flinched slightly at the title—not yet hers—but recovered quickly. "Then everything you shall have, when it is mine to give."

"Interesting." Kestrel turned his attention to the paralyzed men, particularly focusing on Scar-face. After a moment of apparent contemplation, he returned his gaze to Elizabeth. "What shall we do with your would-be murderers?"

Elizabeth's expression hardened, girlish features transforming with cold fury. The sudden shift was remarkable—innocence replaced by something ancient and vengeful, as though generations of female suffering had crystallized in this one young woman.

"Release them one at a time," she said, her voice dropping to a register that would have sent chills through any normal human. "I would deliver the Queen's justice personally."

Kestrel raised an eyebrow but complied, releasing the telekinetic hold on Scar-face while maintaining the others in stasis. The man collapsed to his knees, gasping as control of his body returned.

"What devil's work is this?" he wheezed, looking frantically between Kestrel and Elizabeth. His hand instinctively moved toward the dagger at his belt, then froze as Kestrel narrowed his eyes slightly.

Elizabeth approached him with measured steps. Despite her torn clothing and bloodied face, she moved with imperial confidence, as though addressing a prisoner in the Tower rather than confronting her attacker in an abandoned church.

"You sought to violate the daughter of Henry VIII," she said, her voice eerily calm. Blood from her split lip dripped down her chin, spattering onto her already-ruined dress. "To dishonor and murder a princess of England."

The man's eyes bulged with terror. "My lady, we were only following orders! The Duke of Northumberland—"

"So readily you betray your master," Elizabeth interrupted. "How disappointing." She picked up the man's fallen dagger, testing its weight in her hand with the casual expertise of someone familiar with weaponry. "In time, I might have shown mercy to a man who maintained loyalty, even misplaced loyalty."

"Please, Your Highness—"

Elizabeth moved with surprising speed, driving the dagger into the man's throat with such force it emerged from the back of his neck. Blood sprayed across her already-soiled dress as she leaned close to his face, watching the life fade from his eyes with clinical detachment.

"The Tower would have been more appropriate," she said conversationally as he gurgled his last breath, "but we make do with what tools are available."

Elizabeth straightened, blood-slicked dagger still in hand, and turned to face Kestrel. His expression showed genuine interest now—perhaps even a flicker of respect—as he observed this young royal who had dispatched her would-be rapist with such cold efficiency.

"Next," she said simply.

One by one, Kestrel released the men from stasis. Each tried a different approach—begging, offering information, attempting to flee—but the result was always the same. Elizabeth dispatched them with methodical efficiency that belied her youth and slender build, her technique improving with each execution until the final man died from a single precise thrust beneath the ribcage that punctured his heart.

When the last body fell, Elizabeth stood amid the carnage, blood-soaked and breathing heavily, but with her composure intact. Her torn dress and chemise were now completely ruined, saturated with the blood of thirteen men. It covered her hands to the wrists and had splashed across her face during the more vigorous encounters, giving her the appearance of some ancient goddess of vengeance risen from prehistory.

She turned to Kestrel, still watching her performance with undisguised fascination.

"I believe we have matters to discuss, Mr. Kestrel," she said, wiping the dagger clean on her ruined dress before offering it to him hilt-first. "But perhaps we should find you suitable attire first."

Elizabeth could scarcely believe her own actions. She had never killed before—had been raised as a scholar and potential consort, not a warrior—yet when the moment came, she had executed thirteen men without hesitation or remorse. The Tudor capacity for necessary violence, it seemed, ran true in her veins despite her mother's gentler influence.

More disturbing still was the sense of rightness she felt amid the bloodshed. These men had intended to violate and murder her; their deaths were merely justice delivered directly rather than through executioner's block.

As Kestrel accepted the dagger with an amused tilt of his head, Elizabeth knew her life had irrevocably changed. Her dreams had proven true—this otherworldly being had appeared exactly as foretold. What other visions might come to pass? Her ascension to the throne? England's rise to unprecedented power under her rule?

"Most people would be more disturbed by what just occurred," Kestrel observed, gesturing at the bodies surrounding them.

Elizabeth's control momentarily slipped, revealing something dark and wounded before royal training reasserted itself. "I am my father's daughter," she replied simply. "And I have no luxury for weakness if I am to survive until my time comes."

As she spoke the words, Elizabeth realized their truth. She had spent her life surviving—her mother's execution, her father's disavowal, her brother's counselors' plots, her sister's religious hatred. Each threat had hardened her, preparing her for this moment and the bloody path that lay beyond.

Kestrel nodded, something like respect coloring his assessment. "Very well, Your Future Majesty," he said, the faintest smile touching his lips. "Let's find me some clothes, and you can explain exactly what you think I am and how I might serve your ambitions."

For the first time since the attack began, uncertainty flickered across Elizabeth's features. Despite her dreams' accuracy, part of her had never truly believed this moment would arrive. "You... you will stay? You will help me?"

Kestrel shrugged, the gesture casual despite their gruesome surroundings. "What else do I have to do in this reality?" He examined the bodies around them with scientific detachment. "Besides, I find myself curious about a princess who decapitates her enemies without vomiting immediately afterward. That suggests either psychopathy or extraordinary self-control, and I'm interested in discovering which."

Elizabeth straightened, her blood-spattered appearance at odds with her regal bearing. "Neither, Mr. Kestrel. Merely necessity and the Tudor capacity for doing what must be done." She glanced at the bodies, her expression calculating rather than disturbed. "We should burn these and be gone before nightfall. I know a place where we can speak privately."

Kestrel nodded, his ancient eyes assessing the girl who would be queen. "Lead on, Your Highness. It appears I've found my purpose in this timeline, at least temporarily."

As they gathered wood for the pyre that would eliminate evidence of the massacre, Elizabeth felt a strange sense of destiny fulfilled. The dreams that had haunted her sleep for weeks had manifested in blood and violence, yet also delivered the ally she would need for the dangerous path ahead.

Whatever Robert Kestrel truly was—angel, demon, or something beyond human comprehension—he was now bound to her cause. And with him at her side, perhaps her dream of the English throne might indeed become reality.