The university gala had been chosen for one reason — neutrality.
No weapons.
No political statements.
No power plays.
Just heirs in expensive clothing pretending the city wasn't balanced on the edge of a blade.
Artyom stood near the tall windows of the grand hall, the golden lights reflecting faintly in his dark eyes. Conversations flowed around him — laughter, negotiations, calculated smiles.
Across the room, the Volkov siblings entered.
They didn't arrive loudly.
They didn't need to.
Viktor walked first, tailored black suit, calm and unreadable. Mikhail and Dmitri flanked him naturally. Nikola lingered slightly behind, eyes scanning exits and blind spots. Yelena followed last, elegant in deep emerald silk, her presence as sharp as a blade hidden in velvet.
The atmosphere shifted.
Even those unaware of politics felt it.
Artyom didn't look immediately.
But he felt it.
Viktor's gaze found him without effort.
Always.
On the opposite side of the hall, Sergei stood with Leonid, discussing contracts with potential allies. Pavel laughed too loudly at something unnecessary. Makar observed the Volkov brothers carefully. Nikolai, quieter than the others, noticed Artyom's isolation.
Yelena leaned toward Dmitri.
"He's alone," she murmured.
Dmitri's eyes followed her line of sight. "Not unguarded."
"Emotionally," Yelena corrected.
Before he could respond—
The lights went out.
The room plunged into darkness.
Gasps erupted instantly.
Then emergency lights flickered on — red and unstable.
A scream near the entrance.
Two sharp gunshots.
Not random.
Not chaotic.
Precise.
Mikhail stepped instinctively in front of Viktor. Nikola moved toward the balcony corridor. Dmitri pulled out his phone.
"Security system override," Dmitri muttered. "External breach."
Sergei's voice cut through the panic. "Seal the exits!"
But someone was already inside.
Artyom felt it before he saw him.
A presence.
Cold.
Familiar in a way that made his pulse stutter.
A hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Not painful.
He turned.
Silver hair under crimson emergency light.
Pale, unreadable eyes.
Andrei Morozov.
Alive.
Up close, he looked nothing like a ghost. He looked real. Powerful. Composed.
"You've grown," Andrei said quietly.
The voice wasn't loud, but it struck deeper than the gunshots.
Artyom's breath caught in his chest.
Every story he had been told — shattered.
"You—" His voice failed.
Before another word could form, a wave of dominant pressure filled the space.
Viktor.
He was there in seconds.
His presence pressed outward, instinctively positioning himself between Artyom and the threat.
"Release him," Viktor said, voice low and controlled.
Andrei's eyes shifted to him slowly, assessing.
Interesting.
"So you're the Emigen heir," Andrei observed calmly.
The tension between them thickened, almost visible.
Two apex forces measuring each other.
Sergei pushed through the crowd, face drained of color.
"You."
Andrei looked at him without emotion.
"Hello, Sergei."
Leonid froze behind his husband. Pavel reached for security. Makar stepped forward defensively. Nikolai's expression changed — not fear, but realization.
Yelena watched everything carefully.
This was not random.
This was deliberate theatre.
"You're supposed to be gone," Sergei hissed.
"And yet," Andrei replied evenly, "I am not."
Artyom's heart pounded so violently it hurt.
He looked between the two men.
"You left," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
For the first time, something shifted in Andrei's eyes.
"I did not."
Before Artyom could process that —
More guards rushed in from the side corridors.
Andrei stepped back.
He didn't run.
He didn't panic.
He simply withdrew into shadow like he had always belonged there.
"This isn't over," Viktor said quietly.
Andrei paused briefly at the balcony door.
"It has only begun."
Then he was gone.
The lights stabilized.
Security flooded the hall.
Guests whispered in panic.
But the real damage had already been done.
Because now —
Artyom knew one thing with certainty.
He had never been abandoned.
And both empires knew it too.