Chapter 13, The Night of Claiming.
Royal Villa – Private Wing
Midnight, April 6th into 7th, 1896
The palace had quieted.
The marble halls that hours ago rang with orchestral splendor and aristocratic laughter now echoed with nothing but the hush of retreating heels and the whisper of closing doors. Candlelight flickered low in wall sconces. Curtains drawn against the wind swayed gently, their shadows like slow-moving ghosts.
Somewhere, a final glass clinked.
A violin string hummed in the distance—just once, forgotten.
The celebration was over.
But not the story.
Not for him.
The eastern wing was a world unto itself. Reserved for high nobility, foreign princesses, and heirs who required privacy above all else. Its halls were quieter, the stone underfoot softened with royal carpet. Columns framed each corridor with elegance meant to impress, but tonight they stood like sentries—guarding a threshold that felt sacred.
A breeze moved through the high arched windows, carrying with it the scent of jasmine from the gardens below and the faint perfume of night-cooled silk.
It was a corridor meant for silence.
And into that silence—
he walked.
He didn't rush.
There was no urgency in his step.
Only intent.
Each step was grounded, his bare soles against marble and fabric alike—palace stone was no different to him than mountain rock or battlefield ash.
The torches lining the corridor hissed softly as he passed, and the shadows they cast stretched and pulled—as if the walls themselves recognized what approached.
He carried no sword.
He wore no crown.
And yet no one stopped him.
A lone guard stood at the door to her suite.
He had heard the rumors.He had watched the Games.He had whispered, like the others, about the girl and the god.
But now, as the figure came into view—tunic white, golden hair glinting under the moon, a presence more felt than seen—
The guard's hand dropped from the hilt of his saber.
He said nothing.
He did not salute.
He simply stepped aside.
Because in that moment, he understood:
Some doors were not meant to be protected.Some doors simply opened when the time came.
Arthas reached the door.
It was closed. Polished mahogany, trimmed in golden rivets.
Not locked. But closed.
A symbolic gesture.
One last barrier.One last choice.
He raised one hand—and pushed.
The latch gave easily.
The hinges sighed open, old wood murmuring against its frame.
And beyond the door—moonlight.
A pair of sheer white curtains swayed with the breeze.
Candles flickered near the edge of the balcony.
The stone tiles glowed silver under the stars.
And at the far end of the room, framed by light and wind—
She was waiting.
She didn't turn at the sound of the door.
She didn't flinch.
She simply stood at the edge of the balcony, framed in moonlight, motionless—like a figure carved into the moment.
Her gown was different now. Not the one she wore to the banquet. This one was simpler. Softer. A deep wine-red satin, loose at the shoulders, sleeveless, back exposed to the cool night air. It clung where it needed to and flowed where it didn't.
It looked effortless.
It looked deliberate.
Her hair was down now, brushed to its full length, cascading in gentle waves past her spine. A single strand clung to the hollow of her throat with a kind of desperate intimacy—as if even it didn't want to leave her skin.
The wind stirred it once.
And she exhaled.
She didn't need to look behind her to know it was him.
She felt him.
Felt him the way you feel gravity in your bones. The way you feel the tide before the moonlight hits it. The way you feel a storm before it touches the sky.
There were no footsteps now. He didn't need to move.
Because presence had become a touch in itself.
She stared out into the night. Athens glittered below like a scattered sea of candlelight. Distant laughter echoed somewhere from the lower gardens. A dog barked once far away.
But none of it reached her.
Because behind her—he breathed.
Not loud. Not close.
Just enough.
Enough to tell her that everything she'd fought for had found its way to her.
Enough to say:
You chose me.
And I came.
Still facing the stars, she spoke.
Not loudly.
Not to him.
But into the night between them.
"They told me you wouldn't come."
The words lingered in the air—half hope, half memory.
Then, softer:
"But I knew better."
Her voice trembled—not with uncertainty.
With knowing.
She turned.
Her bare feet shifted slightly against the smooth floor, the soft whisper of silk sliding along skin.
She turned slowly—not like a woman unsure, but like someone savoring the final moment before gravity takes over.
Her hair brushed her shoulders as she moved, the curtain of gold catching the candlelight. Her eyes lifted before the rest of her—searching, not for permission, but for the certainty she already knew she'd find.
And there he was.
Arthas Stood Still
He hadn't moved since the door opened.
But the room felt full of him.
Not with sound.
Not with heat.
But with something heavier.
Something inevitable.
His eyes met hers.
Not possessive.
Not hungry.
Just... quiet.
The kind of quiet you only feel when you stand on the edge of something you will never come back from.
Her breath caught.
Her arms hung at her sides.
For a moment, she simply looked at him.
At the broad shoulders beneath white linen. The strands of golden hair now fallen from the ribbon. The curve of his collarbone. The pulse at his throat.
At the man who had bent the world today—and had come to her after.
And she thought:
He's mine.
But more terrifying—I am his.
She took a step.
Then another.
The space between them collapsed like a tension unwound.
She stopped just in front of him, close enough to feel his breath, to see the faintest flicker of movement behind those glacial blue eyes.
Her fingers rose.
Not to test.
Not to tease.
But to touch.
They landed on the edge of his jaw, trailing lightly to the curve of his cheek. Her thumb brushed the hollow below his eye.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Just watched her.
And she asked—barely above a whisper:
"Do you know what this means?"
He didn't nod.
He didn't need to.
Because he leaned forward, slowly, silently—
And pressed his forehead to hers.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just contact.
The kind that held everything:
The weight of the day.The price of choice.The promise of what comes next.
And the only sound left in the room—
Was them.
Breathing.
Together.
They stood forehead to forehead, their breath mingling, two heartbeats trembling on the edge of a promise.
Xania's hand slid upward, from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the untamed strands of his hair. Her touch was light—but charged, like lightning ready to crackle through skin.
She tilted her face, slowly—an inch, maybe less—until her nose brushed the edge of his cheek.
And then she closed the distance.
Her lips touched his.
Not with urgency.Not with fire.But with truth.
The kind of truth that doesn't ask, "Will you take me?"But says, "I am already yours."
His hands rose as if moved by instinct, by gravity, by something older than thought. One landed on the curve of her waist, the other cradled the base of her skull—firm but reverent, like she was something he had been crafted to protect.
The kiss deepened.
He pulled her closer—not forcefully, not hungrily, but completely.And she came willingly, her body folding into his as though it had been made for that space.
They kissed like people who had lived lifetimes apart and had finally found the place their souls had been reaching toward. It wasn't soft. It wasn't fierce.
It was surrender.
Xania gasped softly into his mouth as his hand on her back pulled her flush against him. Her chest rose against his, and she felt the strength of him—the divine tension that always lived just beneath his silence.
She moaned—quiet, desperate—as his lips moved to her neck.
This is happening.
He's here. He's real.
And he's choosing me.
The room was forgotten.
The stars outside didn't matter.
There were no kings. No crowns. No fathers. No scrolls.
Only heat.Only skin.Only them.