Vencian let his body hang slack, breath shallow, eyelids heavy enough to pass for spent. The stone pressed cold through his back as he was dragged along, boots scraping, hands careless with his weight. He counted those sounds, measured the pull, the rhythm of movement, and stored them away.
Ahead of him, Seris walked first.
Her hands were laced behind her head, elbows angled outward in forced compliance. Her posture stayed upright, chin level, the line of her shoulders unbroken. That alone told him more than words would have. She was playing along, or she was constrained by something sharp and close.
He did not need to guess which.
Behind her, Aline was held tight in a man's grip. The servant, Malox, pressed a knife to her throat with practiced certainty. The blade stayed steady as they moved, guided rather than shaking. Aline's steps were short, careful, dictated by the pressure at her neck. She kept her eyes forward, jaw tight, breathing controlled in shallow pulls.
