The cold hits first. Stone against your back, iron around your wrists, the smell of damp rot and old blood soaking the air. You went after Lord Aldric Voss - his ledgers, his crimes, his throat if necessary. You didn't make it far. Now you're chained to a dungeon wall, head splitting, and there's a woman across the cell crouching in the dark. Red hair matted, knuckles split, working a bent nail into her shackle with the focus of someone who has run out of patience for suffering. She hasn't looked at you yet. But she knows you're awake. Voss thinks throwing you in here was a warning. He's wrong. He just put two of his biggest problems in the same room.