CHAPTER 263: THE KINGDOM FIRST TOUR-2

Belfast, Northern Ireland. Afternoon.

The Airbus H155 flew low over the Lough, offering a brief, panoramic view of a city whose history was written in its dividing lines. Belfast sprawled beneath them... a patchwork of neighbourhoods where the flags and murals told you everything you needed to know about which side of the road you were on. The sky had hardened into a sheet of low grey cloud, and a fine, persistent drizzle streaked the cabin windows as they descended... a fitting welcome to the most delicate stop of the day.

At the helipad, their motorcade awaited. After a short drive, they arrived at the quiet, uneasy stillness of a residential street bifurcated by the Peace Wall. It loomed before them... a brutal expanse of concrete and corrugated metal, twenty feet high, scarred by decades of graffiti and topped with a cruel crown of wire mesh to stop missiles being thrown over. The sectarian murals on either side gleamed wetly in the rain, their colours of defiance and remembrance rendered slick and sombre. One depicted a masked paramilitary; another, a collage of pain and endurance. The air was cold, heavy with the scent of damp brick and asphalt.

This was not a stage for roaring crowds or easy applause. It was a place for reflection... a site that demanded acknowledgement rather than rhetoric. As the media cluster formed under umbrellas, it was Baroness Angela Dodson who stepped forward... a deliberate choice by the campaign. Known across the Kingdom for her empathy and composure, she moved to the front and, with a quiet defiance, stepped out from beneath the umbrella, letting the fine drizzle settle on her dark wool coat... a small gesture of solidarity with those who lived in this divided place.

She stood before the wall, microphones angled towards her, hands clasped loosely before her. The usual campaign energy was gone, replaced by something more solemn, almost reverent.

"We are standing in the shadow of a failure," she began, her voice soft yet carrying effortlessly through the hush. It was not a declaration, but a confession. "A failure of politics, of community, of imagination. This wall was built because we, as a nation, could not find a way to live together. It stands as a monument to fear and division."

She paused, letting the words settle into the drizzle. "The ’Kingdom First’ campaign is founded on the idea of unity... on the belief that what we share is far greater than what divides us. But we cannot reach that unity by pretending the cracks aren’t there. We cannot plaster over them with slogans or a fresh coat of paint."

She gestured to the grim structure behind her. "We understand that our first duty is to the safety and unity of our people... not a unity imposed from Whitehall, but one built from the ground up, in streets like this." Her voice carried quietly but with conviction. "That is why our ’Bridge to Tomorrow’ fund is not just about roads and railways."

Leaning slightly into the microphones, she let her gaze sweep over the reporters and the small crowd of supporters and onlookers who had gathered despite the drizzle. "It’s about building bridges within communities... in hearts and in minds. It’s about funding community centres where Protestant and Catholic children can play football together. It’s about backing cross-community businesses that create shared prosperity. It’s about ensuring that every young person in Northern Ireland... no matter what flag they recognise... knows they have a proud, secure, and equal future within our Kingdom."

Her tone grew firmer, steady with quiet passion. "This wall will not come down by decree. It will come down when the reasons for its existence... fear, inequality, sectarian division... are rendered obsolete. Our pledge is to make that our mission. To put the people of Belfast, of Derry, of every community in Northern Ireland, first. To make this corner of our Kingdom defined not by its past divisions, but by its future potential."

There was no roar of applause... only a few scattered claps, quickly swallowed by a thoughtful silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain.

As they turned to leave for the waiting motorcade, a local journalist stepped forward, holding out a microphone. "Baroness, politicians have been making promises here for generations. Why should people believe you’re any different?"

Anthony stepped forward before Angela could respond, placing himself beside her... a subtle show of unity. His voice was calm, deliberate.

"Because ’Kingdom First’ is not a promise," he said, "it’s a principle of governance. It means every policy, every investment, will be judged by a single measure: does it strengthen the bonds that hold this Kingdom together? The integrity of our Union isn’t an afterthought... it’s the foundation upon which everything else must stand. My government will serve the whole Kingdom, focused relentlessly on healing old wounds, creating opportunity, and ensuring a shared prosperity that leaves no community... and no citizen... behind."

The leaders then walked slowly along a section of the wall, speaking quietly with local community representatives, their postures attentive and solemn. The image was powerful... the senior figures of the opposition humbled before a monument to division, pledging to mend what history had broken.

By the time they boarded the helicopter, the drizzle had eased to a fine mist. The mood was subdued, contemplative. The rising hum of the rotors felt like a return to the present day after the heavy, timeless gravity of the wall.

Angela looked down as Belfast receded below, the Peace Wall now just a thin grey scar across the landscape. "That was tough," she murmured.

Anthony nodded, his expression set, eyes distant. "Sorry to send you there," he said quietly. "You were the perfect choice among us."

The flight back to London passed in weary silence. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving only fatigue. Ernest Prentice, seated opposite, was already scrolling through reports of the day’s coverage... social media analytics, engagement spikes, and local news reactions.

"The Belfast segment is playing well," he said without looking up. "Authentic. The Glasgow announcement is leading the Sky News ticker."

Anthony leaned back, closing his eyes. It had been a brutal, punishing schedule... a whirl of speeches, camera flashes, and relentless expectation. The performance of strength was exhausting, and he felt its toll. He had avoided this life for years, wary of the way politics consumed his father... the constant vigilance, the loss of peace, the corrosion of family. And yet here he was, living it in an even harsher form.

He exhaled, long and quiet. Behind his eyelids, an image rose... a young, beautiful girl smiling in a memory he could not quite reach.

"My daughter... I’ll see you soon." A rare smile formed on his lips.

***

The nineteenth floor of Heimdall Tower had once been a single vast conference room spanning the entire level. Now, it had been transformed. One half of the space had been rearranged into a temporary election office... more than fifty desks laid out in neat ranks, manned by a mixed team drawn from the employees of Heimdall and Clan Blanc. The other half was screened off by a makeshift partition wall of heavy cardboard panels, creating a provisional meeting room centred around a large table surrounded by twenty chairs.

At the head of the table sat Juliette Blanc. Twelve young men and women were scattered along the sides, the low hum of devices and soft rustle of papers filling the air.

"It’s already seven in the evening," Juliette said evenly. "What’s the response from the media and the public?"

Max stood up from his seat. "Boss, our story led on BBC, ITV, Channel 4, GB News, Sky News, and several local stations. But ITV and GB News barely covered it... just a brief mention of the campaign launch, no footage of the speeches."

Juliette’s tone cooled a degree. "Lexi, what happened with those two? Didn’t you send gifts to all the political reporters?"

Lexi gave a small, rueful smile. "I did, exactly according to the list. After the evening broadcasts, I followed up with both reporters. They’d filed full reports... but the channel executives cut their airtime. Apparently, they were told to do so by the owners."

Juliette turned slightly towards her left. "Cassandra, I think you’d better speak with Miss Li about this. Either we buy those channels outright, or we find another... method of persuasion to bring the owners on side."

Cassandra, appointed by Teresa as the liaison between the election team and Eleanor’s core team, nodded. The election team handled campaign logistics and communications, while Cassandra’s role was to manage external support... funding, influence, and anything that required pressure from beyond the political sphere.

"Understood," she said, tapping a note into her phone.

Juliette shifted her focus. "What about the social media response?"

A young woman with brightly coloured hair straightened in her chair, fingers dancing over a tablet. "Organic reach is huge. The clip of Baron Chapman’s speech is trending on Twitter. The ’Kingdom First’ hashtag has been used more than fifty thousand times in the last six hours... mostly positive. Our TikTok edits of the helicopter arrivals are performing especially well with the under-thirty demographic."

A young man on the opposite side added, "Sentiment analysis looks strong overall, but there’s a coordinated counter-narrative starting to circulate. They’re painting the Baron as an out-of-touch aristocrat, despite the populist messaging."

Juliette’s expression didn’t change. "And our counter?"

Leo spoke up. "We’re flooding the feeds with the opposite... pushing user-generated content from the rallies, showing diverse crowds, small business owners, families. It’s cutting through."

"Good," Juliette said with a small nod.

Another staffer, a sharply dressed man named Ben, leaned forward. "The manifesto’s being physically delivered to key constituency offices right now. The digital version had over a million downloads. The most read sections are on manufacturing sector and NHS funding."

Cassandra, still focused on her phone, finally spoke. "Our intelligence suggests the Chancellor’s planning a dawn interview outside the Treasury... he’ll try to frame our spending plans as reckless. They’re already calling it ’Magic Money’."

A faint, knowing smile touched Juliette’s lips. "Then we’ll pre-empt him. Lexi, get John Constantine on the phone. I want him booked on Today at seven tomorrow morning. He’s to use the term ’Magic Money’ before they do... and then twist it. Tell him to say, ’The only magic being performed is the government’s disappearing act with our national industrial base. Our plans are fully costed, funded by the Kingdom’s growing economy, not by raising taxes on working people.’"

"On it," Lexi said, already typing furiously on her laptop.