The summons arrived by courier drone, sleek and silent, two hours after Zorya had wrestled Lev into bed. A single, embossed card, its edges sharp as a freshly cut pane of glass, bore the Voronin sigil and a stated appointment time: nine o’clock the following morning. No address was necessary. Everyone in Volkovgrad knew the Voronin Estate, a monument to austere power that pierced the skyline like a frozen shard of winter.
Zorya stood before its gates, the air around her feeling thin, metallic. Mishka, usually placid, paced at her heels, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. Lev, clutching a worn volk-toy, was a vibrant splash of color against the pale, unforgiving expanse of the Voronin driveway. The gates slid open with a whisper of hydraulics, revealing a manicured landscape that felt less like a garden and more like a minimalist sculpture. Zorya squared her shoulders, her worn canvas bag, containing a few of Lev’s necessities, feeling incongruously humble against the gleaming chrome of the estate’s hovering security vehicles.
Inside, the air was cool, filtered, utterly devoid of the rich, earthy smells of her studio. A stern-faced aide, whose uniform seemed woven from shadow, led them through vast, echoing corridors where abstract art pieces shimmered under meticulously calibrated lighting. Every surface reflected, amplifying the sense of being observed, scrutinized. Lev, usually boisterous, clung to her hand, his curious gaze darting from the polished floors to the soaring glass walls.
Aleksey waited in a chamber that could have been mistaken for a corporate boardroom. A massive slab of obsidian served as a table, flanked by chairs upholstered in a severe, dark fabric. Beyond a panoramic window, Volkovgrad sprawled, an intricate circuit board of lights and ambition. Aleksey himself was an extension of the room: impeccable dark suit, silver tie, a posture of controlled power. His face was a mask of careful neutrality, his eyes, the color of winter ice, giving nothing away. He did not rise.
“Zorya Morozova,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, echoing the formality of the setting. “And Lev. Please, sit.”
Zorya settled into a chair, Mishka settling instantly at her feet, a silent guardian. Lev, after a moment’s hesitation, climbed onto the chair beside her, his small legs dangling. His eyes, the same piercing blue as Aleksey’s, fixed on his father with an open, innocent curiosity.
Aleksey’s gaze swept over Lev, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before settling back on Zorya. “There is no need for protracted discussion. The facts are clear. Lev is my son.” He paused, letting the statement hang in the sterile air. “And as such, he is a Voronin.”
Zorya pressed her lips flat. “He is Lev Morozov. He has been for five years.”
Aleksey ignored her, his fingers steepled on the obsidian table. “I will, of course, provide full financial support for his upbringing. An account will be established, accessible to you, managed by my family’s financial officers. All expenses, from education to healthcare, will be covered.”
Her pride, a fragile thing forged in fire, bristled. “We don’t need your charity, Aleksey. We manage.”
A faint line appeared between his brows. “This is not charity. This is my responsibility. His birthright. And my right as his father. Furthermore, I will require regular visitation. A schedule will be drawn up by my legal team, ensuring an appropriate balance. We can begin with supervised visits here, on the estate.”
“Supervised?” Zorya scoffed, a brittle sound. “You think I would deny you access to your own son? Or that he needs supervision with his own father?”
“Until proper arrangements are made, and trust is established, yes. The Voronin name carries certain… obligations. Protections.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. “You brought him into my world, Zorya. Now, you must adapt to its rules.”
A sharp click, then the soft whir of a door opening, cut through the tension. Katya Shcherbina glided into the room, a vision in an ash-grey jumpsuit, her movements fluid and deliberate. Her sharp, scarlet smile served as an unspoken border line. “Aleksey, darling, I thought you might be ready for your midday ‘nutrient infusion’. Oh.” Her gaze swept over Zorya, then lingered on Lev, before snapping back to Zorya, a flicker of recognition settling into a hard stare.
“Zorya Morozova. Is it really you?” Katya’s voice was like velvet, laced with venom. “The ‘Glass Orchid’ herself. It’s been… years, hasn’t it? Not since the unfortunate incident at the Aerona Academy showcase. Such a shame, a talent like yours, to just… vanish.”
Zorya felt the familiar prickle of old wounds. The sabotage. The shattered dreams. Katya’s words, seemingly innocent, landed as a calculated blow, dredging up the career Aleksey’s family connections had helped dismantle. Aleksey, impassive, watched them both. Lev, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, edged closer to Zorya.
“I’m sure you have much to catch up on, but I must insist, Aleksey, our nutrition specialist is waiting.” Katya’s smile tightened, her eyes betraying a hint of something feral. She moved to Aleksey’s side, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder.
While the adults spoke, Lev, bored and restless, slid off his chair. His bright eyes scanned the opulent room. A large, shimmering holocube stood against one wall, displaying complex, branching patterns. He toddled towards it, his small fingers reaching out.
“Lev, come back here,” Zorya murmured, but it was too late. His fingers brushed a glowing node on the display. The shimmering pattern instantly resolved into an intricate family tree, its branches laden with names and faces, radiating from a central root labeled ‘Voronin’. Aleksey’s face appeared prominently, rendered in sharp detail. Then, with a soft chime, another image materialized next to his: a small, smiling boy with bright, curious eyes. Lev.
The room fell silent. Katya’s perfectly composed smile shattered, her lips thinning to a pale, furious line. Her eyes, usually so controlled, flashed with an unfiltered rage, fixed on the holographic image of Lev, a Voronin. She quickly smoothed her expression, though the tremor in her hand as she adjusted her sleeve was barely perceptible. She shot a quick, cutting glance at Aleksey.
Aleksey’s gaze was locked on the holographic tree, then on Lev, then back to Katya. He set his teeth together. The implication, stark and undeniable, hung in the air: Lev, not just his son, but a recognized heir, now explicitly linked to the Voronin lineage for any who cared to look. Katya’s face was a mask of cold fury, barely concealed beneath a veneer of practiced indifference.
“That is quite enough,” Aleksey stated, his voice low, a warning. He rose, his gaze sweeping from Katya’s rigid form to Zorya, who held Lev close. “This conversation is not over, Zorya.” He looked at his son, whose small hand still rested on the projection, his face a picture of innocent wonder. “He is a Voronin. He will be raised as one.”