Chapter 5, The Prince is Registered.

Athens — April 6th, 1896Late morning — Shortly after Xania's declaration

The cheering still echoed behind them.

But as Xania and Arthas were escorted—half-guided, half-followed—off the Olympic field, the roar began to fade behind the stone walls of the stadium's inner structures. The bright marble gave way to shaded stone corridors. Fabric awnings fluttered above makeshift booths and white canvas tents filled with officials, translators, judges, scribes, and soldiers.

The sounds of the crowd melted into a quieter storm—pen scratches, rapid Greek and French, barked instructions, clattering tea trays, and the scuffling of boots.

And into that storm, the two of them arrived:

Xania, her dress wrinkled and stained, one boot missing, golden hair tangled around her shoulders like a crown undone.

Arthas, barefoot, sun-kissed, a borrowed gray cloak tied at his hips like a war banner, sweat still shimmering along the lines of his chest, jaw tight, eyes locked on her—his anchor in this strange world.

---

Inside the Olympic Registration Tent – April 6th, 1896

They didn't walk in.

They entered—like a storm pushing through a parlor, like thunder made flesh and velvet.

The flap of the canvas tent fluttered behind them as the air shifted—not from wind, but from presence. Conversations trailed off mid-sentence. Pens froze mid-stroke. The scent of ink, sweat, and pressed linen mixed with the faint burn of sunlight still clinging to their skin.

Arthas stood a full head taller than every man in the tent. Bare-chested. Barefoot. Cloaked only at the hips in gray wool—her cloak, tied hastily, riding low on his waist. His chest rose with deep, slow breaths, glistening faintly in the shade, steam still lingering where sunlight had kissed his shoulders too long.

His hand remained firmly at Xania's waist—not as a guide, but as a claim.

Every man saw it.

Every woman felt it.

A French judge in a blue sash lifted his monocle, blinking once, then twice, as if unsure whether he was dreaming.

A young German runner dropped the registration book he was carrying. It thudded softly onto the desk.

One older scribe, halfway through recording times from the morning discus throw, turned slowly to his assistant and murmured, "Dieu me pardonne… he's not wearing shoes."

At the far end of the tent, a pair of Italian diplomats exchanged low, scandalous whispers in clipped Sicilian:

"That's the Romanov girl.""He carried her through the center of the field.""He must have stolen her!""She's not acting like a hostage…"

But it wasn't just his appearance.

It was his gaze.

Arthas looked around the tent with slow, quiet assessment—like a predator dropped into an unfamiliar den. His expression wasn't aggressive. It didn't need to be. It was the absence of fear, the unspoken message in his eyes that said:

I have killed gods before. I will not bow to clerks.

One official tried to clear his throat to speak. His voice cracked. He stayed silent.

A British officer in ceremonial dress armor leaned over to whisper to a Danish prince:

"That's not an athlete. That's a warlord in exile."

The prince didn't reply.

He was still watching Xania.

She walked half a step in front of Arthas, her bearing every inch noble—even now, with one curl stuck to her cheek, her glove missing, her dress bearing the signs of dust and crushed flower petals.

But it was the way he held her that silenced the room more than her entrance.

Not roughly. Not forcefully.

But firmly.

One large hand on her waist, fingers gently curved but unmistakably secure, as though the very air might try to separate them and he would refuse it.

He stood like a wall behind her.

Not shielding her.

But anchoring her.

Eyes flicked to her waist.

To her flushed cheeks.

To her slightly parted lips.

To the way she didn't pull away.

A woman at the judge's table leaned toward her colleague, voice barely a breath:

"He's not holding her captive.""No," the man whispered. "She's holding him steady."

And still—no one spoke.

Because in that moment, no one could tell whether they were looking at the start of a scandal…

Or the beginning of a legend.

He stepped forward with slow, deliberate poise—each footfall more like a statement than a step.

Judge Petros Andrianakis, head official of the Olympic field events, cut a striking figure even in his mid-fifties. His gray hair was immaculately combed. His white linen suit, though modest in style, was pressed to a military standard. Gold trim along the cuffs and sash denoted his rank.

He was a man of structure, order, and tradition.

And now, a half-naked titan stood before him, radiating heat and confusion, while a noble girl of one of Europe's most prestigious bloodlines stood at his side, cloaked only in certainty.

His eyes swept over them both—first Arthas, then Xania.

"Mademoiselle Romanova," he said in measured French, the tone clipped and diplomatic. "Would you care to explain?"

Xania inclined her head—barely a nod, but graceful, dignified, in control. Her voice, when it came, was soft but unwavering:

"This man—" she said, gesturing calmly beside her, "—is Arthas Menethil. He is here to compete. And he represents Russia."

There was a moment of silence that felt like a dropped curtain.

Andrianakis raised one brow.

"Russia," he repeated. "A nation that, until moments ago, had submitted no athletes. No rosters. No training logs. No officials."

His tone wasn't mocking. Not yet. But it was probing.

"Yes," Xania replied. "But now it has submitted one."

She didn't smile. She didn't blink.

Arthas said nothing. He simply stood behind her, like a monument placed at the edge of patience.

The judge folded his hands in front of him. His fingers were long, manicured. He didn't look at Arthas again—he looked only at her.

"Miss Romanova, we are hosting international competition. Not divine theater."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Do you think I mistake one for the other?"

A flicker of something—amusement, or perhaps intrigue—crossed his features.

"I think you are asking me to suspend every precedent of protocol," he said. "You offer no documentation. No background. No translator. He's barefoot, half-naked, and—pardon my observation—utterly unaccompanied."

"He's accompanied," she said quietly. "By me."

There it was.

The shift.

The words landed like a blade sheathed in velvet.

A declaration not just of allegiance—but of ownership.

Andrianakis's jaw twitched—only slightly. He turned at last to look at Arthas directly.

Up close, the man's size was even more daunting. The judges had seen power before—Greeks, Germans, Americans trained in modern athletics—but none of them stood like this. None of them had eyes like frozen lightning, nor muscles like they'd been chiseled out of war itself.

And yet…

He stood silent. Still.

Not defiant.

Just… unchained.

And that was worse.

The judge cleared his throat.

"Can he even speak?"

Xania smiled, just faintly.

"He doesn't need to."

Another beat passed. The judge exhaled slowly.

Then—

He reached for a scroll on the desk behind him. Opened it. Passed it to her.

"Name. Country. Preferred events."

"Everything," she said, already dipping the pen. "He'll enter everything."

Andrianakis blinked. "That's not… done."

"It is now."

---

The scroll unfurled across the desk like a contract written in air. Cream-colored vellum, gilded at the edge, already lined with names of competitors: Demetrios Tsiropoulos. François Lambert. John B. Connors. And now—beneath them—there would be one more.

Xania's gloved fingers took the pen from the inkwell with delicate precision.

But there was no trembling now.

Her hand hovered, poised, as she glanced up once at the judge. Then at Arthas, who remained still beside her—silent, golden, breathing with the calm of a man who had never feared a crowd.

"Full name?" the judge asked, already resigned to the theater he now found himself complicit in.

"Arthas Viktorovich Menethil," Xania said smoothly, the patronymic added for Russian realism. "Noble blood from the outer provinces. Trained privately. Off-grid. Elite lineage."

"From where?"

"Siberia," she lied, eyes not flinching. "From the Urals. North of Yekaterinburg."

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Remote."

"That's the point."

"Training background?"

"Mountain discipline. Highland conditioning. No coaching. No club." She dipped the pen. "But…" She wrote the name slowly, letter by perfect letter. "...he does not need one."

The Scribes Whisper

Two junior clerks whispered behind their hands.

"He's not on any roster. No one's seen his form. Look at him—he doesn't even have shoes!"

"His shoulders are wider than my cousin's table. Do you think he's military?"

"That's not training. That's forged."

A British reporter was already scribbling notes:

"Romanov duchess introduces Siberian 'god-man' to the Games. New Russian flagbearer?"

Measurements & Paperwork

A short Greek assistant approached with a worn tailor's tape and hesitant eyes.

Arthas watched him with the expression of a battle-scarred wolf eyeing a deer with scissors.

The man paused, nervously looking at Xania.

"May I?"

She nodded.

"Gently," she added.

The assistant stepped forward—cautiously—then began to measure.

"Height—190… Chest—one hundred and… sixteen?""Weight… roughly ninety-five kilos.""Waist… narrow, hips… built like a titan…"

A second scribe leaned over. "That can't be right."

The tape was pulled again.

"It's right."

Arthas remained silent. Not unmoving—but completely unreadable. The only flicker of expression came when the assistant lingered too long adjusting the tape around his waistline.

His jaw twitched.

And his hand shifted slightly closer to Xania's.

Protective instinct. Still burning.

The System Reacts (Internally)

[SYSTEM INPUT: Competitor Profile Completed]Name: Arthas MenethilClass: Paladin – Level 1Status: Athlete – Earth Realm, Athens Anchor (1896)Stat Observation: Body operating at 118% peak humanCurrent XP: 970 / 1,000Next threshold: Level 2 – Pending…

The Questions Continue

"Preferred events?""All of them," Xania said again.

The judge coughed. "All?"

"All. Running. Throwing. Jumping. Lifting. Fighting. Everything you offer."

"That's unheard of."

She finally smiled. Not soft. Sharp.

"So was today."

She signed.

The Stamp Falls

The judge looked at her for a long time.

Then down at the paper.

Then—he reached for the bronze-handled seal beside him, pressed it into the crimson inkpad, and brought it down hard on the registration form.

Thud.

"He is registered."

Outside the tent, the crowd was still roaring.

But inside, a single truth settled like a divine decree:

The Romanovs had brought a god to the Olympics.

And no one could stop him now.

---

The stamp had barely dried on the parchment.

Xania's hand still rested near the ink, her breath quick from the lie now made real. The official scroll bearing Arthas Menethil – Russian competitor was still being passed down the long table toward the event marshals.

And that's when they came.

The Sound of a Different Kind of Authority

First came the footsteps—sharp, clipped, and aristocratic, not marching like soldiers but slicing like knives across polished stone.

Then came the voice—steely, aristocratic Russian with that cold, clipped edge that made servants kneel before they even saw who had spoken.

"Xania."

She knew the voice before she turned.

Her shoulders stiffened. Her stomach clenched.

Aunt Yelena.

The Duchess of Ice

Grand Duchess Yelena Volkonskaya, elder sister of Xania's mother and current head of the Romanov delegation, entered the tent like a storm veiled in silk. Her gown was flawless. Not a fold out of place. A fan dangled from her wrist, but she did not use it.

She didn't need to.

She carried authority like a blade.

Behind her came two Russian officers in gleaming black-and-gold ceremonial dress, medals gleaming, sabres swinging at their sides. Between them followed Xania's chaperone, pale and breathless, her bonnet askew, mouth still open in shock.

The entire tent tensed.

Even the judge rose from his seat.

The Confrontation

Yelena didn't look at the clerks. Or the officials. Or the judge.

She looked only at her niece.

"You disgrace our name."

Xania turned slowly.

She didn't curtsy. Didn't bow.

She just stood, the faintest red still glowing in her cheeks, her shoulders square, her hand resting on the table.

And beside her—Arthas, massive and silent, shifted slightly closer.

The officers glanced at him. One's hand moved toward the hilt of his sabre.

But Arthas's eyes snapped to him like thunder rolling across a field.

The man froze.

Yelena's voice sharpened:

"You ran through the streets of Athens like a street performer. You let yourself be carried onto the field like a gypsy's bride. You were seen—touched—by a man not of your rank, not of our world. And now you've written his name beside the nation's."

She stepped forward, lips thin.

"Have you gone mad?"

Xania – The Line in the Sand

Xania exhaled through her nose.

Her fingers tightened at her sides. Her heart was racing again—but not from fear.

This time, it was rage.

Quiet, noble rage. The kind you learned to bury in opera halls and lecture parlors.

"No," she said softly. "I've finally come to my senses."

"You have no idea what you've started," Yelena snapped.

"Oh, I do," Xania replied. "I've started a story. One the world will remember."

She stepped beside Arthas. Not behind him. Beside.

"And if you try to stop me, Aunt Yelena… you'll be remembered too. As the woman who tried to keep Russia in the shadows."

The Judge Cuts In

Andrianakis cleared his throat—loudly.

"The paperwork is filed. The name is written. He is registered."

"Withdraw it," Yelena ordered.

"I cannot."

"You will."

"I won't."

That surprised everyone.

Andrianakis adjusted his jacket, then looked straight at Yelena.

"I know a moment when history is written. And I know better than to stand in its way."

A Final Glance

Yelena's eyes narrowed.

Her gaze shifted to Arthas. She scanned his body—his stillness, his breath, the way he stood beside her niece like an untrained beast who had nonetheless chosen his mate.

She didn't understand it.

But she saw it.

And she saw that nothing would stop him from protecting her.

"We'll speak tonight," she said coldly.

Then she turned and swept from the tent, officers trailing behind her, the chaperone half-running to catch up.

Aftermath – Xania Breathes

The tent seemed to exhale with her.

Her hands dropped from the table.

Her legs nearly gave.

And behind her—Arthas's hand slid around her waist again, grounding her.

His breath was slow. His eyes on the flap where Yelena had vanished.

What was that?Was that the storm? Or just the beginning?

Xania turned to him, placed her hand on his chest, and whispered:

"You have to win. Everything. Or they'll take me from you."