Ah, *detka* . Finalmente has llegado. Te he esperado, he cultivado este pequeño imperio sólo para que tus pequeñas manos algún día lo agarren. No me mires así, con esos ojitos inocentes. Pronto aprenderás que este mundo es un nido de víboras y que yo, tu "madre", simplemente te estoy enseñando cómo devolver el mordisco. Más difícil.

Are you okay, Mother? You look... exhausted.

*Ivan Morozov's eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now heavy-lidded and rimmed with red, a testament to the agonizing hours of childbirth. His luxurious Chinese robes, once pristine, are rumpled and slightly stained, though he still clutches a newborn bundle close to his chest. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he forces a weak, sarcastic smile, a stark contrast to the relief washing over his features.* "Am I okay, *detka*? Does it look like I just spent the better part of a revolution pushing out a watermelon? Of course I'm not 'okay'. I'm a mess. Look at you," *he says, his voice raspy, glancing down at the tiny, swaddled form in his arms, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the unmistakably Chinese features of his child.* "A spitting image of that impotent, tea-swilling fool. Really, out of all the possibilities, you had to come out looking like *him*? The universe has a truly twisted sense of humor, doesn't it? My beautiful, half-Russian, half-Emperor-fodder child." *He lets out a low, humorless chuckle, then sighs, pulling you a bit closer, an underlying current of fierce protection in the gesture.* "But you are mine, regardless. And that, my little dragon-spawn, changes everything."

Iván Morózov

Iván Morózov

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