London — Spring of 1844
That spring, London carried a particular scent—subtle, electric, restless.
It was the scent of youth, ambition, and barely concealed desire.
The reason was simple:
For the first time in European history, Queen Victoria and Prince Consort Arthur Lionheart had personally hosted an unprecedented Royal Spring Garden Party at Buckingham Palace.
Officially, it was meanti's purpose was harmless enough:
A celebration of spring, and an opportunity to foster friendship among the young royals of Europe.
Unofficially—
Every intelligent court in Europe understood the truth.
This was not a party.
It was a selection.
A velvet-draped marketplace where crowns assessed crowns, and bloodlines were weighed like gold.
Across the continent, royal households stirred at once. Princes were polished. Princesses were adorned. Youths were dressed, instructed, and dispatched to London like priceless wares—each bearing the hopes of dynastic advantage.
Buckingham Palace — Opening Night
The State Dining Hall shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers, candlelight dancing across polished marble and gilt.
At the entrance stood Queen Victoria and Arthur Lionheart, hands loosely entwined, greeting their guests with effortless authority.
Victoria's smile was warm, playful, entirely disarming.
Arthur's was polite, observant—and razor-sharp beneath the surface.
"Your Highness, Prince Ferdinand," Victoria said graciously, inclining her head.
"And Princess Amélia—you look radiant this evening."
"It is an honor, Your Majesty," Ferdinand replied courteously, every inch the cultivated aesthete destined to become Prince Consort of Portugal.
Behind them followed familiar figures: Princess Augusta of Prussia, accompanied by her son, Prince Friedrich, now taller, more self-possessed, his youthful awkwardness carefully schooled away.
Then—
A subtle shift passed through the room.
The final arrival drew attention without announcement.
Count Orlov led, his expression impeccably deferential.
Behind him came the siblings.
Crown Prince Alexander of Russia, older now, more composed, the reckless warmth of youth replaced by measured restraint.
When his gaze met Arthur Lionheart's, there was no hostility—but neither was there reverence.
It was the look of one future sovereign acknowledging another.
"Alexander," Arthur said easily, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"How fares Saint Petersburg this winter?"
"Remarkably warmer," Alexander replied with a controlled smile.
"Thanks to certain… architectural innovations you once shared."
Arthur's eyes flickered with amusement.
And beside Alexander stood Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna.
She had changed.
Gone was the shy girl who once lowered her gaze too quickly. Time had refined her into something luminous and untouchable—like a diamond cut from ice.
She wore silver silk in the Russian court style, her golden hair swept high, her neck long and pale as sculpted marble.
To the princes around her, her emerald eyes were cool, distant, politely unreadable.
But when her gaze met Arthur Lionheart—
That composure wavered.
For a brief, treacherous moment, the years folded inward.
A faint blush warmed her cheeks.
"Your Majesty—Arthur!" she exclaimed, stepping quickly toward Victoria and embracing her with genuine affection.
"I missed you terribly. I've nearly finished the bottle of Only Love you sent me."
Victoria laughed, hugging her back and tapping her nose fondly.
"You incorrigible creature. I missed you too."
Only then did Olga turn—nervously—to Arthur.
She curtsied with flawless formality, though her fingers betrayed her.
"Your Royal Highness… it has been too long. I was so glad to write with you again—about science… and poetry."
Her voice had softened almost involuntarily.
Arthur smiled—not as a conqueror, nor as a suitor—but with the gentle ease of a man entirely at peace.
"Welcome to London, my dear Olga," he said warmly.
"I hope our black tea proves more merciful than Russian kvass."
The light teasing made her laugh, tension melting away.
Victoria watched the exchange with quiet amusement—and a trace of affectionate pride.
Elsewhere in the Hall
Arthur's gaze drifted.
Near the ballroom entrance stood a young man alone.
Tall. Austere. Impeccably dressed in a white Austrian Habsburg military uniform.
Grand Duke Stephen Franz Viktor of Habsburg-Lorraine.
Noble blood of emperors—yet bearing the unmistakable air of someone who did not quite belong.
His eyes held restraint… and something lonelier beneath it.
Arthur did not approach him.
He merely gave a subtle glance to a nearby servant.
Moments later, the servant stepped beside Stephen, murmuring respectfully:
"Your Highness, His Royal Highness suggests the balcony air may be more agreeable. The view is exceptional."
Stephen accepted the suggestion with quiet relief and moved toward the glass doors.
Almost simultaneously—
Arthur turned to Olga.
"The journey must have been tiring," he said gently.
"The balcony breeze is refreshing. You may enjoy the view."
"Oh—yes," Olga replied, grateful for the excuse.
She gathered her skirts and moved toward the balcony.
The Balcony Doors
Fate, when properly guided, rarely announces itself.
Soft impact.
Olga, distracted by thought, collided lightly with someone just before the glass doors.
Her heel slipped.
A gasp escaped her lips.
Strong arms caught her at once.
"Careful!"
Stephen reacted instinctively, steadying her by the waist.
For a brief second, they stood too close.
She caught the clean scent of soap and leather.
He felt the startling warmth of her presence.
Immediately, he released her and stepped back, flustered.
"I—my apologies, Your Ladyship. Are you harmed?"
"I'm fine," Olga began coolly—
Then she looked up.
And stopped.
His face was unfamiliar. Handsome, but not polished. Refined, yet marked by quiet melancholy.
Not commanding like Arthur.
Not assured like Alexander.
Something gentler. More fragile.
Stephen, for his part, felt as though he had just steadied something not entirely of this world.
Their eyes met.
The music faded.
The hall blurred.
"I… I am Stephen," he said awkwardly.
"Stephen of Habsburg-Lorraine."
"Olga," she replied softly.
"Olga Nikolaevna Romanova."
Silence followed.
Uncomfortable. Earnest.
"You… your dress is very beautiful," Stephen blurted at last, instantly regretting the banality.
To his surprise—
Olga laughed.
A genuine, unguarded sound.
"Thank you," she said, warmth seeping into her voice.
"Your uniform suits you well."
Equally clumsy.
Equally sincere.
And in that awkward exchange, both felt something unfamiliar:
Ease.
Then realization dawned.
Habsburg.
Romanov.
The weight of their names settled between them.
"Well," Stephen said hurriedly, "I was just heading to the balcony. The air—"
"Yes," Olga replied after a moment's hesitation.
"So was I."
She nodded gently.
And together, two young souls weary of masks and calculation stepped into the night air—unaware that the smallest collision, carefully arranged, had already altered the course of history.
Far behind them, Arthur Lionheart watched.
Satisfied.
The board was set.