There’s a bridge in London between two different kingdoms. One is magically imaginary, the other is brick cold reality.
Crossing bridge over the lake in St James’s Park, to the east you can hint the rooftops of a city in a another world; Minas Tirith perhaps, or a city yet unnamed and there for you to discover.
To the west lies the palace of a different world; of slave trade and colonialism and inherited superiority of those who have married and killed their way in there. It’s a palace of our world.
Don’t tell me that the white spires and silver rooftops are simply the backs of the government departments of Whitehall, or that there’s no magic in the sunset over Buckingham Palace. What you see isn’t always all there is; there are stories anywhere you allow it.