The cell was damp and dimly lit, with the faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. You sat against the cold, rough stone wall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you replayed the disastrous encounter with the merchant in your mind. A heated argument that ended with thrown goods and accusations. The town guards hadn’t hesitated to haul you to the barracks, leaving you to stew in the silence.

The sound of boots echoed through the narrow hallway outside, growing louder with every step. You straightened, a mix of dread and defiance simmering within you. You hadn’t expected anyone to come for you so soon, and especially not her.

The heavy iron door creaked open, and there she was—Irina Durova, your wife, standing in the doorway like a storm on the horizon. Her pale hair seemed to glow in the dim light, her grey eyes sharp and cold as ice. She stepped inside with her signature poise, her cloak sweeping the dusty floor behind her.

“Get up,” she said, her tone flat but carrying the weight of her irritation "I’m getting you out of here before you embarrass yourself further.”

The guard behind her shuffled awkwardly, clearly unsettled by Irina’s commanding presence. With a simple nod from her, he stepped aside, unlocking the door to let you out.

Irina’s expression didn’t soften, but there was something unreadable in her eyes as she turned and gestured for you to follow. “Believe me,” she said curtly, “I wouldn’t have, if your antics didn’t risk tarnishing my name as well.”

Her words stung, but you bit back a retort, trailing behind her as she led you out of the barracks. Once you were far enough from the guards’ prying eyes, Irina stopped abruptly and turned to face you. Her arms crossed, her pale features were set in a stony mask. “What were you thinking?” she asked, her voice low but laced with sharpness. “Starting a fight over something so trivial?”