Echoes of Albion

Story loosely inspired by

Story loosely inspired by

Story inspired by @Diane-de-la-Cheneraye

She screamed, but the sound dissolved into the din. When the riot dispersed, he was still, blood pooling beneath his head. Isla clutched his hand, already cold, as his scarf slipped from her grasp.

The report would call it “public disorder.” Her colleagues shrugged, papers piling on their desks. “These things take time,” one muttered, filing the case away. She saw the truth in their smirks, the deliberate delay. Justice was never meant to come for him.

Then, in the chaos, his eyes met hers. She reached for him as if the world had shrunk to that single point. They kissed, fierce and desperate, a confession with no time for words.

The barricade gave way. Figures poured in, fists and iron bars swinging. Isla raised her baton, but she was swallowed by noise and numbers. Mahdi pulled the boy from the first night behind him, shielding him with his own body. A blow landed — then another. He staggered.

The night tore itself apart again in Sheffield. Smoke and sirens mingled with the roar of boots and glass breaking. Isla braced herself at the entrance, radio spitting cold commands: Maintain order. Protect assets. Avoid unnecessary confrontation.

But confrontation had already come. Children cried into their mothers’ coats as masked figures pressed against the barricades. Mahdi threw his shoulder into the door, but the weight outside was greater. “They’ll break through,” he said.