Emin had scared Alex the first time they met. She had been home alone when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found a tall stranger standing on the threshold. His face was half-hidden in shadow, but his eyes gleamed in the darkness. The moment he stepped into the light, the shimmer vanished, and she saw how intensely dark those eyes truly were.
Emin introduced himself, showed his badge, and explained the reason for his visit with careful precision.
It was difficult to believe a genuine Scythian agent was sitting in her kitchen. Alex demanded to see the headquarters before agreeing to anything. Her boldness surprised the spy, but he complied and took her to the Federal Security Agency.
That was how their alliance began. Emin became her contact — the person she could turn to for advice or help.
Emin arranged the first meeting with Volodja, the man who would become her fictitious husband. The encounter wasn't meant to be romantic, yet Alex later regretted that it hadn't been.
Her mother liked Volodja immediately. He reassured her that Alex would be safe with him, though he carefully avoided revealing the true nature of his work in Gaul. The older woman assumed he needed to cross the border to exchange important information with colleagues already stationed there. She had no idea her new son-in-law was a spy, hacker, and assassin rolled into one.
They met again on the day of the civil ceremony. A small gathering of friends and relatives helped create the illusion of a whirlwind romance and a spontaneous decision to marry.
Although the marriage was fictitious, their first kiss was real — and Alex genuinely enjoyed it. At first Volodja hesitated when her lips met his, but then he leaned in, kissing her deeply, his tongue brushing hers as his hands settled on her waist, as if taking full advantage of the moment.
After the ceremony, they collected every receipt and photograph as proof, in case the Gallic authorities questioned the legitimacy of their union. Gauls were notoriously suspicious of marriages between their citizens and Scythes.
Gauls themselves preferred extremely young mail-order brides from Panyupayana, girls escaping poverty to support their families. Such unions were rarely scrutinised. Scythe women marrying Gauls, however, were automatically suspected of seeking profit. Scythe men marrying Western women faced the same accusation.
Emin had rented a room in a pleasant hotel where the couple went after the celebration. Exhausted, Alex went straight to bed while Volodja slept on the couch.
He woke her early the next morning for their flight to Gaul. The luggage had been packed two days earlier, so they left without rush or stress.
The airport was crowded as usual. After the lengthy check-in and tense passport control, they had time before boarding. They found a quiet spot overlooking the runway, their backs to the other passengers.
While Alex rummaged through her handbag, Volodja went to fetch drinks. He returned with two cups: steaming coffee for himself and black tea for her. She didn't remember telling him her preference and wondered whether Emin had mentioned it or whether Volodja had discovered it himself.
They sat in silence, watching airfield vehicles move busily back and forth. They were finally alone, yet neither spoke. Alex desperately wanted to hear his voice, to ask about his life and share something of her own, but she couldn't bring herself to begin.
In moments like these, she despised the Gauls more than ever for the damage they had done to her social skills. For as long as she could remember, she had been shunned and ignored — in kindergarten, school, university, at work, even at the doctor's surgery. Despite being born in Gaul, she had never truly been one of them.
She had learned to handle problems alone, expecting neither help nor compassion. Her only real friends were her parents and brother — people who loved and supported her unconditionally. But for their safety they had remained in Scythia, leaving Alex isolated in Gaul.
Now she had Volodja. Yet she still felt powerless to start even the simplest conversation. She had grown too accustomed to silence.
Curiously, years of social exclusion had sharpened something in her — a kind of sixth sense. She could sense what people were thinking. She felt Volodja's curiosity; he wanted to know more about his wife but couldn't bring himself to speak. The fact that he sat quietly drinking coffee and looking out of the window rather than at his phone told her he was content to share the silence with her. She appreciated that more than she could say.
On the plane they had three seats to themselves. Volodja gave up the window seat when Alex asked for it.
As the aircraft prepared for take-off, he leaned closer. "Get some sleep," he murmured. "There's a long, difficult day ahead."
The West had not lifted all sanctions against the Scythe Empire. Scythian diplomats, organisations, and airlines were still barred from Western airspace. There were no direct flights from Tsargrad to the Marshes. The only route was via the Ottoman Empire, and the tickets were expensive.
Alex was drifting off when she thought she heard Volodja whisper something under his breath. He spoke of time alone and called her Sashenka — a nickname only her parents used. She liked the gentle intonation.
Perhaps she had imagined it.
Perhaps she had misheard.
Perhaps he had said nothing at all.
She soon fell asleep and dreamed of the two of them at a party. They sat opposite each other with a dance floor between them. Music played, coloured lights flashed. Through the moving crowd she caught glimpses of Volodja smiling at her, and the warm realisation that he liked her felt comforting.
The raspy voice of the flight attendant woke her. She opened her eyes with a pleasant, lingering glow.
Volodja was already sitting upright. "We'll be landing in Constantinople soon," he said.
The recently expanded Constantinople airport was chaotic. They were meant to head straight to the transit zone but got lost and wandered into the bustling duty-free area with its glittering shops.
Someone eventually directed them to the transit zone. After a long walk, they found a quiet corner at the back of the waiting area near a small coffee shop and spent three peaceful hours there before their next flight.
Trouble began the moment their plane landed in the Marshes.
The airport was on high alert and partially cordoned off. A woman explained that security had found a bag containing explosives in the men's toilets, forcing an evacuation earlier that morning. Passengers were only now being allowed back through corridors guarded by special forces.
During the security check, a Gaul soldier singled out Alex's bag. At first, she thought nothing of it — she was usually relaxed in such situations — but his insistence felt wrong.
He pulled her firmly by the elbow, steering her away from the queue toward a side room. When she panicked and tried to pull free, screaming for him to let go, he tightened his grip.
Volodja had already passed through the scanner. The moment he heard her cry, he shoved people aside and forced his way back through the metal detector.
He struck the soldier and demanded in Anglo-Saxon to know what was happening. The man raised his machine gun. Alex saw other officers running toward them and feared they would be arrested. Such things had happened before, even to Gauls, for far less.
Surprisingly, nothing of the sort occurred. It seemed this wasn't the officer's first offence. His colleagues quickly disarmed him and led him away. Volodja and Alex were curtly told to return to the queue.
The other passengers tried to push in front of them. Someone shouted that they should go back where they came from. The security staff groped them roughly during the second screening, their condescending looks unmistakable.
Alex knew that look well. She had grown up with it.
The Gauls were an envious people. They couldn't tolerate two young, attractive foreigners in nice clothes who dared to defy their officers and disturb the false calm of their society.
"No wonder someone keeps trying to blow this place up," Alex hissed in Volodja's ear, unable to contain her anger.
To her surprise, Volodja let out a short, mean giggle.
"What an angry little woman you are," he whispered, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Their troubles didn't end there.
They missed their connecting train. The next one wouldn't leave for another hour. The platform was almost empty, and Alex hoped for a peaceful journey.
There were only two other passengers in their carriage: one at the far end and one in the middle. Volodja asked if she wanted the seat by the door. She agreed.
The carriage was quiet. Their soft conversation carried easily.
The man in the middle turned around. Alex instantly recognised him as a Borderlander. His shaved head was covered in Nazi symbols and Viking runes. His unzipped sweatshirt revealed a large black swastika on his chest.
He shouted something offensive in Borderlandish. Alex couldn't understand the exact words, but the tone was clear. The other passenger, a cowardly Gaul, promptly left the carriage.
Volodja surprised her by replying with something equally obscene in Borderlandish, deliberately provoking the man. The Nazi stood and began walking toward them. Alex grabbed Volodja's hand, trying to pull him off the train where station staff might intervene.
The Borderlander shifted his attention to her and began hurling insults.
"Go suck some Western dick — that's what you came here for!" Alex shouted back, her temper flaring as it always did in confrontations.
"Shut up, you nasty Scythe whore!" the man roared, raising his fist.
Volodja blocked the blow aimed at her head. Instead, the Nazi's fist connected with her jaw while Volodja drove his own fist hard into the man's liver. The Borderlander doubled over. Alex slammed into a nearby table. She heard the sounds of the fight but couldn't open her eyes — the impact had been brutal.
When she came to, the Nazi was gone. Volodja was sliding the carriage door shut behind him as he returned from the rear. Blood trickled from a cut above his left eyebrow.
He caught her as she staggered and helped her sit down.
"Are you all right? Is your head spinning? Are you nauseous?"
He checked her pupils with a small penlight from his pocket.
"What else are you carrying?" Alex asked weakly, managing a small smile.
Volodja wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth with his handkerchief while she cleaned his face with her cardigan sleeve. Their eyes met.
He leaned back, staring at her. He tried to hide it, but Alex could sense his nervousness and confusion.
Just eight hours earlier he had left the safety of Scythia for this mission. He hadn't expected the change in atmosphere to be so immediate or so brutal.
He was beginning to feel the same suffocating desperation Alex had lived with her entire life in Gaul — an invisible cocoon that tightened with every breath, leaving only the smallest opening for air.
She wanted to comfort him but didn't know how to comfort a man who could knock out someone twice his size.
Welcome to the West, Volodja, she thought. You ain't seen nothing yet.