April 6th, 1896 — Morning – Athens, Kingdom of Greece
The sun was beautiful.
It poured over Athens in wide, warm bands of gold, kissing the rooftops of ancient temples and new villas alike. The air was already alive with noise—hooves clattering on stone, street vendors calling out in Greek and French, children chasing paper streamers between carriages.
But inside one of the finest guest villas in the Plaka district, the light had met no joy.
Grand Duchess Xania Alexandrovna Romanova sat upright in her bed, unmoving.
Wrapped in pale satin sheets, her knees drawn close, she looked not at the ornate ceiling, nor the carved molding of her chamber, but out the open balcony doors—through them, past the bright sky, and into the weight of the day ahead.
The Olympic Games had returned to the world. A dream of nations, of strength and pride.
And Russia had brought nothing.
No athletes.No anthem.No flag in the arena.
Only spectators. And her.
A princess sent to watch.
From the courtyard below came the sounds of preparation. Boots striking cobblestones. Polished hooves snorting against leather reins. Her carriage was being hitched. Maids whispered about her hair, her gloves, her jewelry. Someone debated whether the breakfast rolls had been buttered to protocol.
It all sounded numb.
She should have been excited. Should have been grateful. She was in Greece, after all—dressed in Parisian silk, surrounded by prestige.
Instead, Xania stared out toward the Olympic stadium, its distant stone walls visible even from this far. The flags of the world were being raised. One by one. France. Germany. Britain. America.
But not Russia.
Her eyes dropped to the flagpole in the courtyard—the only place where the Imperial Romanov banner flew. Black, gold, and white. The crowned double-headed eagle. Regal. Proud.
And completely alone.
There was no tricolor beside it. No second flag to mark athletic presence. No delegation waiting on the field.
Just one noble girl… in a foreign dress… with a last name like an anchor around her throat.
Her fingers curled in the bedsheet.
Why did we even come?To clap politely? To smile at France? To pretend we are still strong when we have sent no one to stand among them?
She exhaled slowly, her lips drawn tight, her chest tight with something she refused to name.
It wasn't sadness.It wasn't jealousy.It was shame.
A quiet, constant shame that they had come all this way to be invisible.
She rose from the bed in a single, fluid motion. Her nightdress swayed around her bare ankles as she stepped to the balcony, the breeze lifting a strand of her golden hair across her cheek. Her eyes locked again on the stadium.
She imagined the crowd. The trumpets. The judges in robes. The kings in royal boxes.
And no one for Russia.
A great empire—absent.
Someone should be out there.Someone should stand tall with our flag behind him.
But no one had come.
And in that still, shining moment on the balcony, Xania made a decision.
She didn't scream it. She didn't speak it. She simply felt it crystallize in her chest like a blade forged in silence.
If Russia has sent no champion… then I will find one.
The silence in her room grew louder with every passing second.
Xania turned away from the balcony, breath unsteady but resolve sharpening. Her eyes swept over the polished floor, the French-painted armoire, the mahogany dressing table set with combs and perfumes she hadn't touched. Everything in this villa—every thread, every surface—was curated for her image, not her heart.
And now it felt like a prison.
I am not porcelain. I am not a ribbon tied to a chair beside a king. I am not going to smile at foreign strength while mine is hidden in a drawing room.
Her hands moved fast, as if she feared her own courage might dissolve if she didn't act now.
She crossed the room and flung open her closet.
Not the ballgown. Not the beaded silks. No corset.
She yanked down her pale-blue walking dress—simple, modest, and most importantly, something she could move in. She tore off her nightdress, breath quick and shallow, and dressed with shaking hands. Her fingers fumbled the buttons. Her hair was falling out of its braid, and she let it. Let it hang wild.
She threw a cloak over her shoulders—gray wool, unlined, the kind used by the villa's kitchen maids. It wasn't regal. It was plain. And that made it perfect.
She approached the dressing room window—the side one, slightly cracked, framed by ivy—and there it was:
The ladder.
Still leaning against the outer wall of the courtyard, half-forgotten by the decorators who had hung bunting for the opening ceremony. It was tall. Weather-worn. Steep.
Her mouth went dry.
If I climb this, everything changes.
She didn't pause.
She opened the window wide, gathered her skirts, and lifted one leg over the sill. Her boot touched the stone ledge. Her breath hitched.
Below, the garden hedge waited, soft with flowers and thorns.
She closed her eyes.
Just do it.
She dropped.
The hedge caught her awkwardly, branches snapping beneath her weight. She hit the ground with a stifled cry.
"Ah—!"
Pain bit her elbow. Twigs tangled in her hair.
But she was alive.
Her dress was dusty. Her knee was scraped. A lock of hair had come completely loose and now framed her cheek like a rogue strand of sunlight.
She lay there, stunned, heart thudding like hooves on marble.
And then she laughed—quiet and giddy.
"You did it," she whispered. "You're out."
She stood, brushed herself off, pulled the cloak tight—and ran to the ladder.
It was taller than it had looked.
The wood creaked with every step. Her skirt snagged once. Her hands burned against the splinters.
But she kept going.
The air shifted at the top of the wall. A breeze lifted her cloak like wings. From here, she could see the rooftops of Athens—red and white and gold. And beyond them, like a siren's song carved in marble: the Olympic stadium.
She didn't hesitate.
She dropped.
The road hit her boots with a jolt.
She stumbled, then caught herself.
And just like that—she was on the outside.
No guards. No chaperones. No gowns. No protocols.
Just her breath, her heartbeat, and the wild roar of the city beyond.
She yanked up her hood and ran.
The streets of Athens breathed around her like a living thing.
Xania ran beneath linen canopies and marble columns, ducking under balconies draped with flags of nations her own could not join. Her breath came fast, her heart faster. The wind tugged at her cloak. Dust stained the hem of her dress. Her legs burned, her chest heaved, but none of it slowed her.
There was a pull now.
Something stronger than fear.Stronger than reason.A whisper in her blood.
This way.Go now.Faster.
And then—she saw it.
At the edge of a quieter street, where a cluster of aging stone buildings pressed close like old men whispering secrets, a shimmer caught her eye.
A flicker of light. Wrong. Unnatural.
Not firelight. Not sunlight. Something older. Purer.
She turned into the alley.
It hit her like a thunderclap without sound.
The world narrowed to a single point—the figure kneeling in the center of the cobbled alley, steam rising from his skin, light crackling faintly around him like the last breath of a dying storm.
He was naked.
Utterly. Unapologetically.
But the first thing that struck her wasn't shame.
It was awe.
The man looked like he had been carved from stone by gods who loved only power and beauty. His body was not bulky like a wrestler or thick like a farmer—it was refined, sharpened, sculpted. His chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths. Muscles coiled under flawless skin that shimmered with sweat and residual energy. Veins traced his forearms like silver etchings. His shoulders—broad enough to make her breath hitch—rolled forward as he braced a hand against the cracked stone beneath him.
He looked newborn and ancient at once.
Like a king reborn at the end of the world.
His hair—long, golden, disheveled—hung in damp strands that kissed his neck and collarbones. It moved slightly in the wind, and with it, something about the alley shifted, as though the very space around him bent in quiet reverence.
And then—he lifted his head.
His eyes.
They were the color of ice, but nothing cold existed in them. They were burning with awareness, with a clarity that made her want to run and collapse at the same time. Eyes that had seen too much—and forgotten none of it.
He saw her.
Not in the way men see women.
He saw only her.
Like nothing else existed. Like she had broken the silence of the universe.
Xania stopped mid-stride, every thought frozen. Her cloak slipped back off her shoulder. Her hair tumbled free. Her chest rose and fell in ragged beats.
He's not real.He can't be real.
Her eyes moved—hesitant, unwilling, yet desperate.
Down.
Across his neck, his collarbones, the slope of his chest. The tight plane of his stomach. The elegant lines of his hips, where tension coiled like a held breath.
Then—
Her breath caught. Her cheeks flamed.
She turned.
Hard.
I looked.I saw… everything.Oh gods, I saw it too long.
Her hands covered her mouth. Her knees nearly gave out. She wanted to scream. She wanted to melt. She wanted to disappear.
And yet—
She couldn't run.
She turned back. Slowly.
He was still there.
Still kneeling.
Still watching.
Not covering himself. Not speaking. Not moving.
As if her presence was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
She felt small.
Not insignificant.Not lesser.But small, in the way one feels under a storm, or before a cathedral.She felt like a spark next to a wildfire.
And yet… she didn't feel afraid.
She felt chosen.
The light still flickered around him—dimming now, receding into his skin—but it glowed faintly as if saying: this man is not of your world, but now he belongs to it.
She took a step forward. Her breath trembled.
And he didn't move.
Only his eyes followed her—every motion, every shift in her posture, every curl of her hair caught by the wind. There was no hunger in his face. Not yet.
Only wonder.
Like he had been alone in the dark for too long, and now someone had turned on the sun.
And he just kept looking at her, but not with confusion, not even fear, but recognition.
As though in this city of marble and politics and banners, she was the only real thing in the world.
As though he had been waiting for her.
Her cloak rustled as her arms instinctively wrapped around herself.
Who is he?What is this?Where did he come from?
She took one step forward.
Then another.
Her hands trembled as she pulled the pin on her cloak and let it fall into her hands.
She approached slowly, heart racing, chest heaving from the run—but her voice, when it came, was soft. Raw.
"F-for you," she whispered, holding out the cloak.
He didn't speak.
But he took it—eyes still locked with hers.
Their fingers brushed. Her skin burned at the contact.
He wrapped the cloak around his waist. Sloppy. Minimal. But enough.
Still, her eyes betrayed her.
They wandered—just for a moment.
And what they saw made her knees nearly buckle.
He's not like the others.
No softness. No fragility. No tailored lines or perfumed aristocracy.
This was a man, carved in war and flame.
They stood in silence.
The world around them—sun, dust, distant cheers—faded into stillness. A soft breeze stirred the alley dust, lifting the edge of Xania's skirt. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breath came shallow and fast. Her hands trembled at her sides, fists curling unconsciously around empty air.
And then—
He moved.
He stepped forward—not like a man uncertain, but like a creature being pulled by gravity. Every motion was deliberate, but slow, as if savoring the pull that had been set in motion long before either of them had taken their first breath.
He closed the space between them by mere inches.
And still—he said nothing.
Xania tilted her head upward, blinking as her eyes met his chest before daring to look higher. She barely reached his sternum. Standing this close, she felt like a porcelain doll beside a cathedral column. His body radiated heat like stone left in the sun, and his skin, dusted in steam and faint light, looked both untouched and sacred.
Then his scent hit her.
Stone.Smoke.And something darker—masculine, primal, the kind of scent that could never be found bottled in a nobleman's wardrobe or doused over lace gloves. It was wild. Clean. Alive.
Her lips parted on a soft breath she didn't mean to release.
Don't move, her mind whispered.Don't break this.
And then—he reached for her.
Not hastily.
Not with hesitation.
But with the finality of a man choosing.
One hand slid around her waist, firm but reverent, large enough to engulf her narrow frame. The other lifted—to her chin—fingers grazing her jaw as he tilted her face upward with a touch that made her knees tremble.
He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing hers.
She could feel his breath against her lips.It was warm.Real.
His voice came low, almost uncertain—like thunder rolling in the belly of the sky.
"Are you… real?"
She opened her mouth to answer—but her words never came.
Because he kissed her.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't chaste.
It was everything she'd ever dreamed and everything society had taught her to fear.
His lips met hers in a crash of heat and hunger. He didn't peck her like a shy suitor at a formal ball. He took her mouth—firm and demanding, but never cruel. His fingers curled around her waist and pulled her tight against him, her chest flattening against the hard planes of his bare torso.
Her gasp vanished into him. Her hands—shaking with nerves—rose to his shoulders. And the moment she touched his skin, she melted.
He was hot. Hard. Real.
And he kissed her like he was afraid she might vanish—like this was the only breath he had left, and it belonged to her.
Her fingers curled into his shoulders. Her lips parted for him. She responded without hesitation, instinct overtaking reason. She'd never been touched like this. Never even dreamed it would feel like this—like falling into fire and not wanting to be saved.
She moaned softly into his mouth. Not a sound of resistance—but surrender.
His hand on her waist tightened. His other hand moved to the back of her neck, cradling her, deepening the kiss, guiding her as her knees began to tremble. She didn't resist. She didn't think.
She felt.
And the kiss… kept going.
Longer than a stolen moment.
Longer than decency allowed.
Time didn't exist.Only heat.Only lips.Only the slow, subtle friction of her body against his as he pulled her closer and closer.
His chest heaved. Her breaths hitched.
She was flushed from head to toe, her body burning, her mind a white blur of sensation.
And just when it felt like it might never end—
"There! That alley!"
Russian. Loud. Furious.
Boots. Steel.
The moment shattered.
Xania jerked away, eyes wide, lips swollen, chest heaving. She gasped, stumbled back, nearly falling—but his arm was still around her waist. His grip tightened.
Their kiss had lasted seconds too long to be dismissed.
And now—the world was coming.
Arthas's eyes snapped toward the sound, the instinct of a warrior roaring to life beneath the still-new skin.
His body turned, shielding her. His hand clenched.
And the storm broke.