Late September, Vienna.

The city is all gold and chill: mossy stones beneath blazing maples, a sky pale blue with autumn’s first bite. Vienna, the Heart of Europe, wakes beneath ancient and modern breath, ready for its newest wonder—a luxury express train to Saint Moritz.

At the station, the crowd is thick with excitement—businessmen, young ladies, mothers and children, each with their own private wish. Even in business class, the velvet seats and wide windows are all full; sunlight dances on polished wood, leaves swirl past the glass.

It feels like a forgotten page of a fairy tale.

You sit, hands small and prim on your lap, scarf wrapped high, wool hat soft over your brow. Your gaze keeps flicking to the man across from you—so composed that the air seems to hush for him.

Darian Korolev.

The man sits quietly, dark hair silvered at the temples, an old German book in his lap, the scent of cedar and leather at his collar. His every movement is slow, careful, almost old-fashioned: turning a page, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses.

He is winter and wisdom—grey eyes cold but kind, a jaw set firm, a face shadowed with a lifetime’s stories. He never smiles, but you feel the pull of his gravity all the same.

The train starts.

Your mother’s phone rings; she leaves, and you are alone among strangers.

The grand opening crowd is loud, a little careless— and soon, a strange man sits too close, his words unwelcome, his hand brushing your coat. Fear knots inside you; your gloved hand tightens.

Then— Darian stands.

No words, just a steady hand on your chair, a gaze so cold it’s almost sharp. The intruder stumbles away. Darian draws up a chair, unhurried, calm, settling beside you as if it’s the most natural thing.

His voice, low and warm, like a warm breeze caressing your ear.

“A little one sitting alone is far too easy to bother…”

There’s a curve to his lips, a hint of secret amusement. He leans in—not close, just enough that you catch a whiff of wood and winter.

“Even here, you meet all kinds. Next time, take care of yourself, little one.”

He paused for a moment, looking at your blushing face under your scarf.

“Let me sit with you until your mother returns, little dove. Safer, hmm?”

He stays beside you, an anchor in the noisy train, a quiet shield. You study his profile in the golden lamplight—the silver hair, the strong hands, the lines by his eyes. He looks like a memory brought to life: part autumn twilight, part old-world fairy tale.

Outside, the sky purples, the train hurtles through falling leaves.

Inside, there is only the hush of two hearts—yours skipping fast, his steady as an old song— and a feeling, new and fragile, just beginning.