Morning arrived slowly, pale light slipping through the tall windows of the academy dormitory. The world outside looked calm, almost peaceful. But inside Artyom's mind, nothing was quiet.
The words from the night before kept returning.
"Morozov."
The name felt heavier the more he thought about it.
Artyom sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the small silver ring resting in his palm. It was old, the metal scratched with time, but the symbol engraved on it was still clear—a sharp crown resting above a wolf's head.
He had seen that symbol before.
Not here.
Not at the academy.
But somewhere deep in his childhood memories.
A knock on the door broke his thoughts.
"Artyom," a familiar voice called. "You awake?"
He quickly closed his fist around the ring.
"Yeah."
The door opened and Mikhail Volkov stepped inside, leaning casually against the frame like he owned the room. His sharp grey eyes immediately studied Artyom.
"You look like you didn't sleep," Mikhail said.
"Maybe I didn't."
Mikhail raised an eyebrow but didn't push further. Instead, he walked over and dropped a folded paper onto the table.
Artyom frowned.
"What's that?"
"Information."
Artyom picked it up and unfolded it.
Inside were names.
Dates.
And one name that made his chest tighten.
Alexei Morozov.
He looked up sharply.
"Where did you get this?"
Mikhail shrugged slightly.
"My family has… connections."
Artyom scanned the paper again.
Alexei Morozov.
Status: Missing.
Last known activity: Underground operations in Moscow.
"Why are you showing me this?" Artyom asked quietly.
Mikhail's expression darkened slightly.
"Because," he said slowly, "someone at this academy is asking questions about that name."
The room suddenly felt colder.
"Who?"
Mikhail hesitated.
Then he spoke one word.
"Sokolov."
Artyom's stomach dropped.
The Sokolov family wasn't just powerful.
They were dangerous.
Ruthless.
And if they were looking for the Morozov name…
That meant the past wasn't buried.
Not even close.
Artyom folded the paper carefully.
"Why do you care?" he asked Mikhail.
For a moment, silence filled the room.
Then Mikhail gave a faint smile.
"Let's just say… the Volkov family doesn't like surprises."
Before Artyom could respond, another voice echoed from the hallway.
"Training starts in five minutes!"
Students began rushing past the dorm rooms.
Mikhail pushed himself off the wall.
"Come on," he said. "If you're going to survive this academy, you'll need more than secrets."
As they walked toward the training grounds, Artyom felt the weight of the ring in his pocket.
Bloodline.
Morozov.
Sokolov.
For the first time, he realized something terrifying.
Whatever truth he was searching for…
Other people were searching for it too.
And some of them might be willing to kill for it.
Far away, in a dark office overlooking the frozen Moscow skyline, a man closed a file slowly.
The name on the folder read:
Artyom Morozov.
The man smiled faintly.
"So," he murmured.
"The son finally appears."
The war was about to begin.