t began with General Vaganov's plan to bring down the Romanovs, the greatest lucha libre family in Russia. They had ruled the renowned fighting Palace in St Petersburg for 300 years, regularly inviting the best warriors from among lucha libre royalty to battle for glory, honor, and superiority. Desiring to seize power, General Vaganov struck a deal with the old gods, promising that if they granted him the ability and the opportunity to take the throne, he would find worthy vessels for them to inhibit from among the top fighters in the country.
Pleased with the offer, the gods agreed, and not long after, General Vaganov and his cohorts were able to ambush and kill the Romanovs. The family matriarch Maria Feodorovna, known in her heyday as the queen of lucha libre, escaped the massacre by being on tour in Paris at the time. Most of the royals went into hiding, afraid for their own lives.
Upon taking over, General Vaganov proceeded to open up the Palace to the public, promising that all could fight in it regardless of class and social standing because all fighters were now equal under the new regime, regardless of whether they came from a royal bloodline or not. In fact, he declared, any royals discovered in the Palace would most assuredly meet their end there.
The gods did not take long to demand their payment for orchestrating the successful coup. The first god to make a selection was Death herself, and she chose the general's own son, Gleb, who was only seventeen at the time. General Vaganov died only a short time later, and Death came down to rule the Palace next, wielding her new instrument.
Gleb was granted unnatural strength and endurance, and he soared through the ranks of the fighters, undefeated since his entry. He was given authority over the Palace as Death's own right-hand man, and he became known as the Man of a Thousand Deaths.
Ten years on, however, rumors started to swirl that the Romanovs had not been entirely wiped out. That there was one survivor – the youngest daughter Anastasia. Whose very name designated her as one who could wear the Phoenix mask that was her family's legacy and best Death.
But those were nothing but rumors…
Gleb walks down the streets of the recently-renamed Leningrad, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He's cold, as he always is. Has been since the night he was given up to Death ten years ago.
The crowd that has gathered to gossip in the square quickly disperses at the sight of the man in the Death mask. As he passes by, he can see the fear in their eyes, and he takes grim satisfaction in it.
It is good for them to know fear. Especially the fear of death.
The Palace looms in the distance. Once a grand structure that came to life especially at night, it is now dark and its exterior in disrepair – imposing, frightening to all who come near. His dark mistress wants it that way – she says it is how she weeds out the weaklings at the door.
He doesn't question her. He never does.
He slows down as he gets close to the entrance, seeing the group of fighters huddled against the winds of the Russian winter. A few more steps, and they will see him. He's not in the mood to be stared at some more, so he stops to wait until they've gone in.
Not far away, a young woman with red-gold hair is sweeping the street. She wears a long, shabby coat, and her head is bowed. Normally, Gleb doesn't notice specific people unless they're fighting him – otherwise, their faces blur into everyone else's. But he finds himself straining to get a better look as his skin prickles in some strange call.
As he edges forward, his boot lands on an errant tree branch, snapping it into the snow with a loud, wet crunch.
"Oh!" the girl cries out, falling back and dropping her broom. She looks around her, visibly terrified.
Gleb generally doesn't care. But something compels him to step forward, to offer aid. He kneels to be at eye level with her and extends a hand.
"It was a tree branch, comrade," he explains. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
She regards him with wide blue eyes for a few seconds, and he sees himself reflected in them. A hulking figure, everything but his eyes and mouth hidden behind a black mask. A reminder that yes, she does have something to fear.
He begins to pull his hand back, but before he does, she has taken it.
Heat rushes through his veins, and his insides feel as though they are burning. He wants to let go, but he also can't.
He feels so very alive.
He doesn't even realize that they're both on their feet already – his head is swimming from the rush. But she lets go of his hand, and the warmth vanishes just as quickly as it came. He feels even colder than he was before.
She's trembling as well as she takes her broom, and he reaches out to steady her, noting for the first time that she is beautiful. Before he knows it, he has blurted out an invitation to tea to warm her up. To warm them both, if he can stay in her vicinity for just a little while longer.
A dim part of him insists that he needs to be back in the Palace, but the part of him that last lived at seventeen surges to the surface, giddy with a schoolboy's excitement, and insists that a few minutes won't matter. The fighting doesn't start until the sun has set.
But she jerks away when he touches her arm through her coat and scurries off, stammering out a thank you.
"What's your hurry?" he asks, trying to mask his disappointment as the warmth fades from his fingertips.
"I can't lose this job. They're not easy to come by." She hesitates and softens a little, turning back to look at him. "But thank you."
No one understands duty better than Gleb does, so he doesn't argue further. But perhaps when it's a better time…
"I'm here every day!" he calls out to her departing figure.
He only hopes she is.
Anya stares down at her hand, wondering.
She is rarely cold, even in the winter. She's always had a high body temperature – it has taken her through ten years of living on the streets with nothing to her name.
In fact, not even a name. She's only Anya because some nurses decided she would be. It's as if she was just unceremoniously dumped into the world at seventeen.
The only hints she has of her past are flashes of fire, screams, and wet crunching sounds. She's always been especially reactive to the latter, and it's caused her a fair share of embarrassment when she has an attack in front of a crowd. And so she's grateful for the kindness of the fighter who had stopped to help.
The chill she felt upon taking his hand is strange, though. It's as though the heat that always keeps her warm was sucked away by a vacuum.
She circles back around to the Palace. With night falling, she can hear it coming to life inside, and her skin prickles. But she doesn't know whether she wants to fight or to flee. The Palace always makes her feel that way.
It's not that she doesn't know how to fight. Russia has never been a safe place for young women, particularly young women crossing the country alone, and thankfully, she's always had a propensity for physical combat. Enough to keep her alive and unharmed for most part, until she finds what she's been looking for.
Identity. Family. Home.
Love.
She dreams of meeting someone – she just doesn't know who or where to find them. She dreams about narrow, dimly-lit hallways ending in a brightly-lit room. She dreams of a beautiful façade, decorated in gold like a beacon in the dark sky.
She looks up, and the real sky overhead has gone the color of ink. She should go. The later it gets, the more dangerous it is to be hanging around a hall of fighters. Purist spectators and competitors alike don't take kindly to stragglers.
As she turns her back to the Palace and makes her way back to the Neva River, she wonders if the man in the black mask is fighting tonight. If he is, she wishes him luck.
"Vlad, I've been thinking about Anastasia Romanov."
Vladimir Popov turns away from the action in the Palace's ring to look at his protégé with exasperation. "Not you too, Dmitry."
The young man grins at him, a calculating glint in his eye.
It has been ten years since the event that had shattered Vlad's carefully constructed identity as lucha libre royalty. He'd had enough skill to pass himself off as one, and he had been living the good life until the Romanovs were murdered by their own general. He'd had to flee as General Vaganov initiated a bloodthirsty campaign against the royals – whispers said anyone he caught was sacrificed to the old gods. Only quick thinking and the street-smart Dmitry's timely interference had saved Vlad from this purging.
In return, Vlad had decided to apply his knowledge to training Dmitry in proper lucha libre combat. The boy had grown up in the streets, orphaned when the Palace had claimed his father many years ago. Getting into the fighting arena – and bringing it down – was part of a revenge plot to spit in the face of the authority who had allowed that to happen. With Dmitry now close to being ready, they had started covertly attending Palace fights to scope out the competition and perhaps get an in.
Unfortunately, training and basic necessities do not come cheap, and they've been running low on funds.
"Her grandmother is willing to pay anyone who can bring Anastasia back," Dmitry whispers urgently. "Imagine if we're the ones who do."
"Nice plan. Except for the part where there is no Anastasia," Vlad points out.
"We'll find a girl who can play the part," Dmitry continues as raucous cheers surround them with the conclusion of a fight. "You can teach her what to say, how to fight like a Romanov."
His mind whirs with a new idea. "Then we take her to the Palace, and you enter us together. The queen is sure to notice her on that stage, and I get to exact my vengeance."
Vlad looks at Dmitry, pensive. His student's eyes blaze with confidence and purpose – Dmitry knows what he wants to do, and he knows he's damn good at it. It's why he's a quick learner, and why he will become a star in the Palace in due time. But it also makes Vlad afraid sometimes. He's seen the best warriors in the country fight, and he never wants Dmitry to underestimate them.
Especially the Man of a Thousand Deaths.
Gleb Vaganov comes out for the last bout of the night, and the atmosphere perceptibly changes. The cheers and jeers seem to shrivel up and die before the Palace's champion. The few hushed murmurs voice their early condolences for his poor, hapless opponent, and Dmitry leans forward with interest to study the match.
Not that there's much to watch. The other man barely puts up a fight, and one Flatliner later, Dmitry sighs in disappointment as he falls back against the back of his seat.
"They need me in there," he sighs. "Someone needs to give him a challenge."
They file out the dingy door with the rest of the spectators, their chatter breaking the eerie silence. It's past midnight, and most of Russia is in slumber.
Dmitry and Vlad head in the direction of home, currently the old, abandoned estate of Count Yusupov. As they pass a side street near the Neva, they hear the sounds of a scuffle. Exchanging concerned looks, they hurry over to see what's happening.
A young woman with gold hair is being accosted by two men in masks. To Vlad's surprise, she doesn't look frightened – her eyes are narrowed in concentration as she drops the broom she's holding and throws a punch at one of her attackers. It connects solidly, and he staggers backward, clearly thrown off guard. The other charges, and she grabs his arm, twisting it as she delivers a kick to the back of his knees.
His companion is getting to his feet, however, and he does not seem pleased now. Dmitry jumps into the fray, grasping the masked man by the back of his shirt before he gets any ideas. He sends him crashing to the ground with a massive yank.
The girl gives no visible indication that she has noticed Dmitry or Vlad, but Vlad sees her relax slightly now that she has backup. She chops her attacker hard in the chest, making him double over. As Dmitry's opponent stands, Dmitry leaps up and deals a vicious spinning kick to his face, felling him.
The attackers start backing away, realizing they're outmatched, and bolt. Vlad bends and picks up her fallen broom.
"Are you hurt?" Vlad asks the girl as he hands it to her.
She shakes her head and takes the broom. "Thank you," she says. She turns to Dmitry. "That was gentlemanly of you."
Dmitry is staring at her with an odd expression on his face, his brow furrowed like he's watching Vlad demonstrate a complicated move.
"Are you a fighter?" Dmitry blurts out. Vlad blinks – he can't mean –
"Not really, but I'll be fine. I can defend myself for most part," she replies. "Again, thank you." She starts to move past Vlad.
Dmitry gestures wildly at her. He does mean that.
To be fair, this girl would be easy to train…she has got basic skills already. And Vlad could start over. Live the good life once more once Maria Feodorovna pays up.
He puts a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Would you like to be one?"
She stops and turns. "What?"
"I'm Vladimir Popov. This is Dmitry. We're looking for the lost princess of Russian lucha libre, Anastasia Romanov," he explains.
Dmitry chimes in. "You fight an awful lot like her."
She snorts. "That's very kind of you, but I think you've got the wrong girl."
"I've seen many female fighters, and not one of them fights like her the way you do," Vlad remarks. "No one spots lucha libre royalty like Vlad Popov!"
She shakes her head. "I've been living on the streets since I can remember. I don't have any family – let alone family that's lucha libre royalty. Heaven knows I've been looking for the past ten years."
Dmitry frowns as he gives her a good look. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven, but I don't see how that's relevant –"
"You've been looking for your family since you were seventeen?" Vlad's senses are beginning to tingle.
"That's when they found me." She fiddles with the handle of her broom. "They said I was lying there on the side of a road, like I'd been beaten up."
Dmitry's eyebrows shoot up and he meets Vlad's eyes.
"Why were you beaten up, child?" Vlad ventures.
"I don't know. I don't remember anything before that."
Jackpot.
"We're heading for the Palace," he continues smoothly as Dmitry comes up to stand beside him. "The biggest stage in all Russia. If anyone wants to be found…it's there that they can be found."
He extends his hand. "Come with us."